Invictus
by NostalgiaandBurgers
Summary: Everybody deserves a second chance. Not everybody deserves an eighty-second chance. The Luteces decide to give one last throw of the dice with a new man. Maybe a younger Booker will make a difference, and maybe just make all the wrong choices. What's that saying again? "A man chooses, a slave obeys". Rated T for swearing.
1. The Ride

"_Fallen, that's the way we all begin:_

_Imprisoned by the evil fate we're in._

_How can we from this hard world of sin be saved?"_

_Oh shit_, he thought desperately as he collapsed to the ground gagging, his heart thumping like a drum in his chest. _This is the end_. With that single thought, it truly hit home how dire the situation was. He felt his lungs constrict painfully, and in his peripheral vision he saw his arms and legs began to flail wildly. In vain, he tried to draw in air, but was only met with failure and the familiar taste of blood. Was it just his eyes playing tricks on him, or were there two people standing above him and watching? They looked practically identical, so maybe it was his dying double-vision messing with his head. _It's too soon… I'm… I'm sorry, Anna_. At last, his movements stilled, and he was no more.

Meanwhile, the two people (for there was, in fact, two) examined the body closely like it was a mildly interesting pamphlet, albeit one that stank of alcohol.

"Hmmph," huffed Rosalind, annoyed. She prodded the dead man's face with her toe to check if he was alive. Motionless bloodshot eyes stared blankly at her in response.

"Hmmph indeed," remarked her partner-in-dimensional-crime, Robert. A comfortable silence fell between them, or as comfortable as one can expect while in the company of a corpse. Around them, the hustle and bustle of everyday Columbian life continued, undisturbed by the situation nearby. All of them have seen far worse, after all.

Rosalind broke the silence with a tone of indignation in her voice. "Well, I did not see that one coming."

Robert glanced at her, amusement written plainly all over his face. "Quite the contrary, I believe. It was obvious once the vendor placed double cups of relish on the dog. Fairly intimidating stuff; enough to deter even the bravest man. Even Heimlich would approach it with hesitation."

Rosalind rolled her eyes in exasperation. "What matters now is what we do _next_. This one didn't even last half as long as the others."

Robert turned away from the corpse to look at her fully. "We do the same, correct? Send in another and hope he dies a better death than… _this_." He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the body. "At least the others died a real death. Even Comstock would get a chuckle out of this."

"I see no source of humor in this." Rosalind replied icily. "I see, instead, another life wasted in a botched attempt of some sort of redemption, and as a result, more of my time wasted in this _experiment_." She spat the last word out with venom. Robert merely lifted an eyebrow in response. "It's not as if we could do anything differently. In fact, I suggest that we give up on this mission of ours." Rosalind grumbled, crossing her arms.

Robert ignored her and instead tapped his lip with his finger, deep in thought. "Would it be possible if…?" He trailed off, staring at the clear blue Columbian sky. In the distance, he could see Songbird circling the girl's statue.

Finally, he snapped her fingers. "I've got it!" he declared triumphantly, a genuine smile forming on his face. "We send in a younger version of DeWitt." He spread his hands out wide in a "you see what I did here?" motion.

Rosalind's face looked unimpressed as she considered her twin. "Is that even _possible_?"

Robert's face soured a bit. "You don't get it?" he asked, slightly crestfallen.

"I don't get how it would _help_," she retorted.

Robert closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration. "It's _simple_. Take, say, a decade away. The _when_ would be irrelevant, so long as we send in one that has gone through the prior ordeal. Well, maybe not all of it. Anyway, not only would he be fitter, but – "

Rosalind's eyes widened in understanding. "Ah, I see! The girl – "

"– Would still be gone, yes – "

"– And his hand – "

"– So _now_ you understand," Robert finished, looking quite smug and satisfied.

"I still think it won't change the result," Rosalind said, still unconvinced, as Robert glared at her. "It is a waste of time. We are better off not doing this at all, as it will only end in failure with every single attempt."

"Just _one_ time, Rosalind," Robert said hotly. "Dear Lord, can you not take a bloody chance for once? This could be the solution we've been waiting for! We owe them too much to lose faith in this. Please, Rosalind."

Rosalind pursed her lips at his small outburst, and turned away, silently fuming. Robert let out a frustrated sigh, shaking his head. He'd gotten upset her, but won this battle. She would follow through with his idea, no matter how unwilling she seemed to be. The question, he mused, looking one last time at the dead lonely man, was if _he_ would win the war for himself.

* * *

_1912 - Coast of Maine_

"Goddammit, ten years younger and he weighs just as much as before," griped Robert, struggling to walk towards their dingy with the heavy load on his back. Rosalind simply watched impassively from the small boat, holding her raincoat together as the wind whipped it around furiously. Around them, the storm continued to howl, just as it had eighty-some times before.

Panting with the effort, Robert finally lowered the man carefully into the back seat of the boat. "Whew," he breathed out, wiping off the sheen of sweat that had gathered on his forehead. "I appreciate the assistance," he shot at Rosalind.

She shrugged, quite unperturbed. "This is your idea, your responsibility, your specimen. I've made this quite clear, haven't I?"

Robert shook his head in exasperation at her words, before stepping back to examine the "specimen" in front of him, who looked wholly reminiscent of the man from before.

But yet, they were not the same. The overall appearance was similar, yet there were fine details that separated the two. This face was relatively untouched by scars, and much of the frown lines and wrinkles from before were now replaced by smooth, tanned skin.

The most obvious difference was the badge on the breast of his jacket. A black-and-white eye, with _Pinkerton's National Detective Agency_ written around it. Just underneath the eye was a tiny inscription that Robert had to bend over to read: "_We never sleep_."

The past ones had all been beasts of killing and destruction, but they were raging, alcoholic beasts. This was a man in his prime – a well-oiled machine compared to the others. Hopefully, this one was more of a man than they others, but Robert knew better than to think too optimistically. And as he watched him mutter in his unconsciousness ("…_Bring back the girl and wipe away the debt…_"), he just had to smirk; some things never change.

"He _is_ quite the looker," remarked Rosalind, almost having to yell to be heard over the wind. Robert turned to look at her rather quizzically. "What?" she asked defensively. "I am simply stating a fact."

"You're stating an _opinion_," Robert amended. "Though he does look much better than usual."

"I suppose ten years does that to a person."

"Hmmph."

"Hmmph indeed."

A pregnant pause followed as they both stared at the slumbering form in the boat. A bit of déjà vu for both, though the type of déjà vu that accompanies going through the same thing dozens of times before. Finally, Rosalind spoke, a bit hesitatingly. "Do you... suppose that – "

"– he's too young?"

"Precisely. I feel as if – "

"– She would – "

"– We'll address that issue when – rather, _if_ – it arises," Rosalind interjected. "Now let's this bloody boat going."

Robert acquiesced and clambered in, grabbing the two oars. Rosalind sat expressionless with her face towards him, making no move to help. She was still peeved with their earlier argument, though that was nothing new.

Groaning, Robert painstakingly forced the oars against the current of the raging waters. With slow progress, the boat began to rock in the direction of the light house they knew so well.

And so the circle started anew.

* * *

_"It's not true that life is one damn thing after another; it is one damn thing over and over."_

- Edna St. Vincent Millay

Booker woke up to a face full of water.

_Shit shit shit_, was the first thought racing through his head. _Not the baptism, no damn it all to hell_!

Eyes closed, he frantically smacked the air in front of him, trying to get the priest off, who was yelling at him to hold still. "Stop moving, you fool!"

"No, no, no, no, no - _I don't want to do it_!" he yelled, spluttering through the water on his face. He felt the priest grab his arm, and quickly twisted so that he could pull him into a headlock. Oddly enough, he noticed that the priest had an awful lot of hair for such an old fellow…

He felt he could open his eyes suddenly, and when he did, he was met with the sight of a _very_ disgruntled woman, and a _very_ amused man.

For a few moments there was silence as the boat was rocked by the wind.

Finally, the man clucked his tongue a bit disapprovingly. "Well, _that_ certainly makes thinks awkward," he said lightheartedly, ignoring the tension between the two. He picked up the oars and began rowing again. "Let's get a move on things, dear," he said, directing his words at the disheveled woman in front of him. "Go on now, give him his luggage!"

The woman obeyed and broke her gaze from Booker to retrieve an object, returning with a small wooden box. When she held it out stiffly for Booker to take it, he met her eyes. "Um, sorry about that, ma'am," he said a bit ruefully, trying to apologize. "Had a bit too much the other night, y'know?" He grinned a bit weakly at her.

The woman returned the look with a completely stony gaze. It didn't take a genius to know that she was _pissed_. She turned around, her only response to Booker's apology a muttered curse. Her hat had fallen off during their scuffle so her hair whipped around in the wind, only serving to irritate her further.

Booker shrugged and pried open the case, examining the contents with quick eye. Random shit, useful shit, coded shit, _gun_. "That'll do," he muttered, checking the safety latch. He placed it in his hip holster, enjoying the sense of security the familiar weight gave him.

With that done, he sat back in the boat, relaxing as much as he could in the chilly weather. The man and woman were having a conversation of their own – or rather, the man was struggling to multitask between breathing and rowing. Booker considered offering assistance to the poor fella; there was easily three hundred pounds on the boat, and the storm wasn't doing much to help. But there was only one pair of oars on the boat, and he sure as hell wasn't going to use his hands.

A lighthouse and a small dock soon came into view, breaking through the wall of grey fog. Slowly, the boat drifted towards a small ladder located at the side farthest away from the tower. With a grunt, Booker hauled himself up, his soppy clothes weighing him down. He straightened out his body and examined the area around him. "Is anybody going to meet me here?" he hollered at the couple below him. They were already several yards away by then, and going farther every second. "I sure hope so," called the man. "I sure hope _not_," countered the woman, her voice fading away. Even from a distance, Booker could hear the ire in her voice. "Hopefully the rain will knock some _sense_ in that big loaf."

Booker could feel his temper bristle at her words. Just as they disappeared into the hazy mist, he cupped his hands to his mouth and drew in a deep breath.

"_Bitch_!"

Booker wasn't religious, but he sure hoped to God that she heard that.

* * *

Booker walked amiably toward the raffle, his head swiveling back and forth as he tried to process everything he was seeing; his prior annoyance at the earlier botched baptism was mostly gone. His self-control was being tested - this was a whole new _world _to him. What the hell, how is there a damn city in the sky? Everything - from the advertisements of "Vigors" that decorated the walls, to simply the atmosphere of the area - just seemed alien. He wouldn't be surprised if one of the citizens turned into a bloody bird, by the way things were panning out.

But deep down inside, he felt a sense of childish wonder that just wanted to go and explore this place, which he quickly suppressed. _You're here for a job_, he thought, scolding himself. _Get yourself together, DeWitt_.

Abruptly, the gentle background music from the radios was replaced by a voice. Around him, the festival-goers all halted to listen. "_This is your Father Comstock, with a reminder to the beautiful city of Columbia._

_A wise bishop will one day say, 'Ever since the days of Adam, man has been hiding from God and saying, 'God is hard to find.'_

**_This_**_ is what the False Shepard does to us."_

Booker furrowed his brow as he listened and walked, still staring absentmindedly at the impossibly blue sky. This city was getting creepier by the second. "A false wha - ?"

_CRACK!_

Booker grunted in surprise as pain blossomed across his face. Instinct and training quickly took over and he settled himself into a defensive stance, hands poised against danger. He blinked.

It was just a sign he had run into. Nearby, a small child giggled at his blunder.

Shaking his head slightly to clear it, he examined the sign a bit closer. "The mark of the False Shepard! Beware, Columbians!" it read, displaying a demonic hand with a tattoo of two letters – AD.

Booker cocked his head curiously as the announcement continued.

"_HE pulls the covers over the eyes of the innocent, and HE guides us away from Salvation._

_HE is the bane of existence._

_HE seeks to **ruin** the circle of life._

_And yet these are not the worst of his sins, for he seeks our holiest and most prized and most pure being of our group: our lamb._

_He will lead her to a place darker than the depths of Hell itself, and he will leave her there to rot for the wolves._

_So I ask of **you**, my dear denizens of Columbia, to keep on the lookout for this Shepard."_

Booker rolled his eyes in disgust. "Everybody's a politician," he muttered under his breath, checking a small cut that he received on his knuckle when he ran into the sign.

Suddenly, his vision turned grey, and a mark – the Shepard's mark – appeared on his hand.

_What the hell_?

A symphony of voices started in his head, all of them speaking at once.

_Will you be reborn_ – _the False Shepard has come to lead my lamb astray – we ain't letting him join our flock – Anna, Anna, Anna –_

A drop of blood fell onto his finger.

The voices stopped as Booker looked around, a bit breathless. Nobody seemed to have noticed his momentary lapse. He checked his hand for the mark. Clean, other than a new bloodstain.

Booker rubbed his temple vigorously with his palm.

_City must have some damn nasty pollution_, he thought tiredly.

* * *

He just wanted to get past this damn raffle place. That "sample" the lady handed him scared the living shit out of him. What the hell do these people do in their spare time? Get others to do their freaky shit against their will? Sounds like a recipe for disaster.

Booker walked past the machine he had just fooled, feeling a little disgusted with himself. Sure, he wanted to get this debt paid, but he sure as hell wasn't going to turn himself into some type of real-life monster. _You already are one_, his mind whispered accusingly, like a personal devil's advocate. He flinched and swore under his breath - the drink was already making him jumpy.

Ahead of him was the same couple from the boat, blocking the path in front of the gate. With their neon raincoats off, he could see their faces clearly for the first time. As he walked closer and closer, they made no sign of budging. Booker rolled his eyes in annoyance; clearly, they weren't going anywhere until they got something from him.

"Heads?" asked the man, a chalkboard hanging from his shoulders. Dozens and dozens of tally marks were scratched onto the surface. He stopped counting after twenty, his eyes a little out of focus.

"Or tails?" said the woman next to him, a stoic expression on her face. It seemed like she hadn't forgiven him yet. They were nearly identical to each other, and for some reason seemed awfully familiar to Booker, but just thinking about that made his head pound uncomfortably. Wincing slightly again, he rubbed his forehead. "Excuse me?"

"Flip the coin, please." With a single fluid motion, the man flicked a coin towards him. Acting more out of instinct, he caught it and examined it under the sun. It was a standard silver eagle; nothing peculiar about it.

Booker glanced at the couple, thoroughly confused. "What the f… actually, let's just start with why?" he asked, rolling the coin in his palm.

The woman frowned at him and sighed impatiently. "Will you just flip the damn coin?"

The man cast her an alarmed look but said nothing. Obviously this was something important to them. Booker smirked slightly; now _this_ was something he could have fun with.

Grinning cockily, he slipped the coin into his pocket and shoved his way between the two, making sure to "accidentally" bump into the lady. He set off at a brisk walk, leaving them in the dust.

He chuckled inwardly at her open jaw. Those stuck-up upper-class slobs should learn not to trust strangers with money, _especially_ not people like him. What did they think he was: some kind of saintly prophet?

* * *

Rosalind's mouth was still wide open.

"Well, I did not see that one coming," Robert said patiently, trying to gauge her reaction, while deep inside he was holding back laughter.

Silence.

"Hmmph."

Still silence.

He couldn't help it any longer. He snickered into his hand, shoulders shaking, and walked as far away from Rosalind as he could.

* * *

Booker ignored the roar of the man leading the raffle, trying to get to the gate unnoticed. A lithe hand grabbed his arm with surprising strength, stopping him in his tracks. "Hey, mister!" shrilled a young lady, carrying a basket full of baseballs. "Why don't you try your luck at the raffle?"

Booker had to squelch a moan. Why couldn't people just leave him alone? He sighed in defeat. "How much?" he asked, fingering the coin he filched from the couple.

The lady laughed at his response, lightly hitting his shoulder. "Oh, aren't you silly!" she exclaimed. "Have you been living under a rock? The raffle is free!"

Booker shrugged, reached in the basket, and grabbed the very first one. A dark "77" was etched in with a black marker. His mind flashed back to the telegram before - "_Don't choose 77_". Oops.

"Oh," the woman whispered, glancing at his choice. "That's a lucky number. I'll be rooting for you." She winked at him with a flirtatious smile, and then disappeared into the crowd. Booker raised an eyebrow in amusement. She definitely wanted to get in his pants.

"Attention! The moment you have all been waiting for! The 1912 raffle is about to begin!" boomed the man on the stage, maniacal glee sparkling in his eyes. Clapping erupted in the air. A different woman from before walked onto the stage, holding a basket filled with slips of paper. The man gestured to her, his arms spread wide. "Is this not the _prettiest_ white girl in all of Columbia?"

Booker rolled his eyes and snorted. Now this man definitely wanted to get in _her _pants.

The man reached in and swiftly pulled out the winner.

"Number seventy-seven! Our lucky winner! Please step up and claim your prize!" The crowd filled the air with the moans of the losers and the cheering of the eager bystanders.

_Well, I'll be_, mused Booker. _Today keeps getting better and better_.

He stepped forward confidently, leisurely tossing the ball in his hand.

And then the curtains were opened, revealing what was inside.

At first, all Booker could register was shock. How the hell was this a prize? Why the _fuck_ are these people cheering? Rage clouded his mind just as quickly. The choices were clear as day: throw the ball at the couple like the piece of shit he is, or be a man and teach these sick bastards a lesson.

But just as Booker poised his body to throw, a quick thought raced across his mind. _Is this really the only option I have?_

Things shouldn't just be _this_ black-and-white, he reasoned. A random memory flashed by, and he remembered, just a few weeks ago, a particularly nasty strike that broke out in the steel factories that he and his men were sent to shut down.

Twenty strikers and soldiers dead (_you killed them_), forty plus wounded. The situation got sorted out and he got his paycheck, but his buddy, Kerry, was forced to amputate an arm and was blinded in one eye (_all your fault_). He remembered Kerry turning to him, half of his face covered in a bloody bandage, and saying, "_You know who really won there? The ones that didn't fucking fight_." Booker was left to drinking for a straight week afterward to wash away the memories and guilt.

How was this situation any different? If he attacked the announcer, how would that accomplish anything, other than letting the world know he was a supreme asshole? If you choose not to play, you don't win… but then again, you don't lose either.

Hesitatingly, he lowered his arm, and the crowd began booing with displeasure. The announcer, noticing Booker's discomfort, began taunting him into action. "Let me guess: you're taking your coffee _black_ these days?" he sneered, spittle flying from his mouth.

He felt something tug on his pants leg. "What are you waiting for, mister? Didn't you win?" chirped a small boy, his eyes filled with innocence.

He made eye contact with the doomed bride: "Please! _Please_, have mercy on us!"

It was too much, too much going on, and every single thing was plain _wrong_. Without a word, he turned and shoved his way out of the crowd, making sure to give every one of them a strong elbow to the chest. The angry mob turned their attention to the couple, and their screams were like a stab in his heart.

He was going to need a drink after this.

* * *

"He is utterly _destroying_ this experiment!" Rosalind was absolutely furious.

"Mmm," was Robert's only response.

"What happened to the constants? The variables?! He is ruining everything!" she threw her hands into the air, nearly smacking Robert in the face.

"Mmm?" The corners of Robert's mouth twitched upward, but otherwise he remained rather stoic.

"_Why are you not helping_?!"

Robert sighed, the slight smile disappearing. "Because I know."

"You know _what_?"

Robert shrugged. "Why ask what," he murmured. "When the delicious question is _when_?"

Rosalind almost hit Robert upside the head. No wonder Booker looked so irritated whenever they say that to him.

* * *

"MONUMENT ISLAND GONDOLA RIDES: CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE."

Booker almost jumped off the boardwalk. He'd been walking through this damned city for _hours_, and now he couldn't even get with a hundred yards of the girl, because this damned sign said so. If there was one more thing he had to hate about this city, it was that every-freaking-body he's seen here followed the rules like a pansy.

Fuming, he turned around and his eyes landed on a small dingy bar, mostly devoid of any visitors. He just needed some time to drink away and relax, before giving up. _I wouldn't mind being baptized in beer_, he thought darkly, as he headed towards the front door.

Inside was dank and sketchy, but pretty much home for Booker. The bartender didn't even glance at him as he slid a beer down the worn counter. The other guests were either incapacitated or in their own world, swaying slightly to the radio's music.

Booker had just sat down at an empty table, when a hand shot into his line of sight and grabbed his drink from him. "Now, now," a familiar voice chided, almost like a schoolteacher scolding a child. "You have a job to do, Mr. DeWitt."

Booker's head shot up, and he was surprised to find the couple… no, just the man. He was like a sore spot in the building, with his smooth and unwrinkled tan-colored tuxedo. "Sir," Booker grumbled, reaching back for the glass. "This isn't your business. I don't want trouble."

The man raised an eyebrow, scooting the alcohol out of reach from Booker's outstretched arm. "Mr. DeWitt, it would be best if you knew that all your business is, in fact, my business. Now, if you want to find the girl – "

"Why're you concerned about the girl?" Booker shot back, getting a little frustrated. He just wanted his beer, dammit! "Don't you have your own girl to deal with?"

The man winced slightly. "Let's… not discuss her for the time being." He pulled a chair over and sat down so he was facing Booker. "I feel like you and I have gotten off on the wrong footing," he said a bit sheepishly. He stuck out his free hand. "Robert! Pleased to meet you."

Booker narrowed his eyes suspiciously. He reached out and grasped Robert's hand. "I'm Boo – "

Robert waved Booker's attempted introduction away, rolling his eyes. "Please, please – I already know enough about _you_, Mr. DeWitt." He released the semi-awkward handshake and folded his arms in a sophisticated sort of way.

"What I'm more concerned with," he began, leaning forward in his seat. "Is how you plan on getting to Monument Island."

Booker reached over and snatched the alcohol, now that Robert had abandoned it. "Don't have one," he said carelessly, taking a swig.

"And why not?"

Booker shrugged. "I'll find a way to pay my debts. I've still got a job. I've got time."

Robert frowned at his indifference. "But no wife. No kid. No –"

"- how the _fuck_ do you know about that?" Booker's tone came out quietly, but there was no denying the underlying deadliness. His beer glass cracked under the pressure of his hand. The air between them instantly became thick with tension.

"Mr. DeWitt, I understand you are going through difficult times," Robert said quickly, recognizing the danger. "But I hope it has occurred to you, that maybe – just _maybe _– your debts can't be settled that easily. You came here for a reason, Mr. DeWitt. A wise man once said, 'A man chooses – '"

"– _a slave obeys_," Booker finished automatically, almost without realizing it. Like an instinct or something. Immediately, he felt nauseous, just like at the False Shepard sign.

Robert looked startled for a second, and then beamed brightly at him, not noticing his discomfort. "Very good! But as I was saying, you have two options. You can choose to remain a slave to your inner despair and wallow in your guilt and indecisiveness… or_,_ be a _man_, and do something about."

"_A man chooses… a slave obeys_," Booker murmured, still a bit dazed.

"Uh, yes, that's the gist of it," Robert said, a little concerned about Booker's behavior. An awkward silence followed. "So…" Robert fidgeted a bit in his seat. "I'll be outside if you change your mind." He got up, patted Booker gingerly on the shoulder, and left.

Gradually, Booker came to his senses and put his head in his hands. "This place is fucking me _up_," he lamented with a moan.

The radio began playing a new song, an angelic sound that clashed with the harsh setting. "_Follow me there_," the woman crooned softly with a piano. "_We'll both be surprised_. _If we forget anything_, _hopefully nobody will remind us_."

Physically and mentally exhausted, Booker slowly rose from his seat and walked out of the bar. Outside, Robert was standing near an edge with no fencing – a drop straight towards death. In the distance, the huge tower of Memorial Island stood almost serenely amongst the puffy clouds.

"Quite a marvel of engineering, isn't she?" Robert queried, his back to Booker.

Booker merely grunted in disinterest. "How the hell do I get there?"

Robert clapped his hands together. "Right to the point, you are!" he said gleefully. He pointed out into the sky, in the general direction of the tower. "Do you see that?"

Booker turned his head to follow. "I see… the statue?"

"Well, yes, but do you see _that_?" Robert gestured harder with his hand. Booker squinted, a little confused as to what he was looking for. Everything seemed normal – wait, why was there a grey blur in the middle of the sky? Booker motioned towards the blur. "Is that it?" he asked gruffly.

"Atta boy!" Robert exclaimed. "Now, normally, those don't mean a thing, but in our case…" Robert snapped his fingers once, and a flash of bright light came from the sky. Booker was blinded by it and covered his eyes, spots dancing in his vision. Once he had recovered, he looked and was stunned to find a set of looping rails that had appeared from nowhere. And they appeared to go from –

"From here, straight to Monument Island," Robert said proudly. "This might prove useful to you," he added, pulling out a strange metal contraption from behind his back. It had three hooks on one end attached to a rotating gear, and what looked like an arm socket. "A Skyhook, the main method of transportation on these rails," Robert explained, seeing Booker's look of confusion.

Booker slid his arm easily into the Skyhook's sheath, firmly grasping a handle located inside. It seemed secure enough. He swung it around a few times, feeling its weight. A small knob was located near his thumb, and when he pressed it, the three gears began spinning fast - very, _very_, fast. If the blades were any closer to him, they would've taken his head off.

Robert winked at him. "Enjoy your trip on the Lutece Express!"

Booker turned towards the rails, his legs shaking slightly and his heart pounding. Heights had never bothered him too badly, but this was borderline suicide. Hell, this _was_ suicide. "Hey, how do I - "

Booker swiveled his head around to ask Robert a question, but Robert had disappeared, apparently without making a sound.

He gulped. "Well," he muttered, trying to bolster his self-confidence. "Nothing ventured, nothing gain – OH GOD!" As he jumped towards the rail, the Skyhook had started spinning wildly and magnetized itself toward it, jarring his shoulder with the impact. For a split second, Booker felt helpless – "_Damn thing must be magnetized!_" Unbeknownst to him, a few specks of blood flew off his face in small droplets.

Initial terror was soon replaced with a spike of adrenaline as he slowly got the hang of it. Holy hell, this was actually _fun_. He whooped, the sound lost in the rush of wind.

As he flew farther away from the bar, he heard the radio's last few lines, almost like a farewell.

_I don't know where this is going  
I'm taking a ride on a wing and a prayer  
Follow me there  
We'll both be surprised._

**Songs belong to Over the Rhine and the hymn Fallen is Where We All Begin.**

**The next stop on the Lutece Express: Elizabeth. If this felt like a slow start, I apologize, but it's necessary for the plot.****Thanks for reading!**


	2. To the Lamb

"_Just as I am, and waiting not  
To rid my soul of one dark blot,  
To Thee whose blood can cleanse each spot,  
O Lamb of God, I come, I come."_

Robert sat in the bar, absentmindedly gazing at the Monument Island statue through the window beside him. _My work here is done_, he thought smugly, picking up Booker's abandoned beer. Curious, he gave it a whiff before gagging at the sour odor.

His thoughts were interrupted by the clicking of heels on the polished floor. He ignored it and took a sip of the alcohol, coughing as it burned down his throat. He knew what was coming, anyway.

Robert leaned back leisurely, ignoring the sensation of being stared at. Finally, after nearly a minute of silence, he heard her breathe out in frustration. With very unsubtle stomping feet, Rosalind walked into Robert's view, blocking out the entire window. Crossing her arms, she tapped the heel of her foot on the ground and raised an eyebrow. "Robert, we need to talk." Her tone made it clear that she wasn't in the mood for messing around.

Robert widened his eyes innocently. "What's wrong, dear?" he asked lightly. Rosalind pursed her lips at him, unimpressed. "You know what I'm talking about," she growled, her eyes narrowing. Robert shrugged, and then thrust Booker's drink at her. "Want some?" he offered, still trying to play it cool.

A vein in Rosalind's forehead bulged prominently. _Oops, too far_, Robert mused. She swatted his hand away and pointed at him, her index finger centimeters from the bridge of his nose. "What are you playing at, Robert?" she demanded, her voice a deadly calm.

Robert's eyes were nearly cross-eyed from staring at her finger. "Can't we talk about this like adults?" he pleaded, trying to worm his way out of the situation. Rosalind didn't move a hair. Robert gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. Beads of sweat started to form on the back of his neck, but he was compelled not to answer. "You're hiding something from me," she whispered, and a look of betrayal flitted across her face.

Robert shook his head vehemently at her words. One of his arms snaked around his back, hiding his hand from Rosalind's view. "I would never hide anything from you," he replied boldly. He crossed the fingers behind his back.

There was a silence as Rosalind glared into Robert's eyes, searching for any cracks in his stature. A moment later, she lowered her arm, seemingly satisfied with his honesty. "Then what on earth is happening to this experiment? The constants we've come to have known are just…" She waved her hands around her head in bewilderment. "…_gone_."

Robert, now out of the frying pan, tapped his chin thoughtfully, holding back a sigh of relief. "If I were to theorize, based on what has happened thus far… those 'constants' were not indeed constants, but variables with an extraordinarily high probability percentage. When the main subject was changed – after all, we have been using essentially the same Booker each and every time – the percentages were modified as well. The only _real_ constants are that there are a man, a city, and a lighthouse." He looked up and was relieved to see Rosalind nodding slowly in agreement.

"Of course, this is all inconclusive. It's not as if one of us knows how this will turn out," Rosalind responded, chuckling at the thought. "That would be _absurd_."

Robert smiled back and nodded, choosing his next words cautiously. "Of course, that would be _terribly_ absurd." He crossed his fingers even tighter.

* * *

"Well, _shit_!" Booker swore loudly as he zipped forward on the skyrail. Monument Island was literally right on top of him, and he had no idea how the hell he was getting off of this thing. A quick glance below informed him that he was in for a painful drop, unless he was lucky enough to hit some of the bushes at the entrance.

Calculating his velocity, he let go of the ignition button on the Skyhook, going from maybe what seemed like fifty miles an hour to a straight drop down, just barely missing the garden. "Oh – "

With a dull _thud_, he landed squarely on the cobblestone path in front of the door. He managed to shield his head from the impact, but it still felt like getting hit by a cannonball.

Booker groaned blinked several times, trying to clear some of the stars from his eyes. His back felt like it had been rubbed with sandpaper, but otherwise he felt pretty intact. Gingerly, he staggered up, feeling pain blossom between his shoulders but he quickly shrugged it off. "Hopefully I never have to do that again," he grumbled, wincing.

After a few minutes that consisted of him clearing his head, Booker looked up to view his destination: the picturesque statue that towered above him.

_Of course, she'll be at the very top_, he groaned mentally, almost feeling the soreness that was going to be in his legs. An idea occurred to him suddenly, and Booker cupped his hands around his mouth. "Rapunzel, Rapunzel," he bellowed, his voice echoing in the air. "Let down your hair!"

Nothing responded to his plea. No plume of hair tumbled from the tower. Booker shrugged, defeated. "Well, it was worth a shot," he sighed, trudging towards the entrance.

* * *

Panting slightly, Booker leaned his body against the wall as a brief respite. How much farther was there? It felt like he'd already walked the entire length of the building three times in a row. Wiping the sweat off his forehead, he staggered into an elevator, punching the button angrily. As it gradually ascended upward, Booker suddenly put his hands on his knees, a knife of pain arcing through his mind.

_Why was he here again_? _Why are you here_? a voice asked, assertive and demanding. _To wash away the debt and wipe the slate clean_, he answered automatically, like second-nature. He wouldn't choose to come here for any other reason.

Right?

The _ding_ of the elevator jolted him from his thoughts and the doors slid open with a _hiss_. The room beyond was tiny and dimly lit, with various drinks and snacks lay strewn around.

Impulsively, a thirsty Booker picked up a canister of coffee and shook it experimentally. Not a single drop fell out, but a plume of dust did billow off of the top. He threw it aside, a bit peeved, and then stood puzzled in the middle of the room. _Well, now what_?

"You a bit parched, Mr. DeWitt?"

Booker jumped about a foot into the air, banging his knees together. He whipped his body around, ready to throw a punch into his assailant's face, and found that it was only… Robert. Of course it was.

Booker eyed him warily. "Where the hell did you come from?" he asked, his voice pitching high with incredulity.

Robert grinned charmingly like his usual self, undeterred by Booker's hostility. "You looked a bit worse for wear, so I brought you a pick-me-up." He pulled, from absolutely nowhere, a massive bottle. Its contents glowed an eerie yellow, reflecting onto his skin. It looked less like alcohol and more like toxic waste from an industrial factory.

But Booker was thirsty, dammit, and he hadn't had a proper sip of booze since who knows when. He felt his self-control crumble at the sight, and the question of _how _exactly Robert snuck up on him dissipated. Hungrily, he eyed the mysterious drink, noticing that there wasn't a label anywhere. "What's this called? I've never seen it before."

"Oh, it's a special Columbian brew, called _Infusion_," Robert replied enthusiastically, stressing the name. A glint shone in his eyes. "Go on, try it!" he urged, tossing it underhanded at Booker.

He caught it effortlessly and tossed it from hand to hand, feeling its heavy weight as the liquid sloshed around. Booker racked his brain, thinking of over a hundred different reasons as to why drinking this would be a bad idea. Then he realized that if he were to die now… well, it would probably be more of a blessing. With practiced ease, he unscrewed the cap and chugged it down eagerly, waiting for the familiar burn down his throat, followed by the blissful buzzing sensation in his head.

It tasted like piss.

Booker gagged, trying to salvage his taste buds, when a sudden _pop_ went off in his eardrum. Immediately, yellow waves appeared in the borders of vision, yet disappeared just as quickly. Coughing, Booker whirled upon Robert angrily, throwing the bottle at him. Robert lazily moved his head to the side as the projectile flew by and harmlessly struck the elevator door, littering the ground with glass shards. "What the hell did you just give me?" Booker bellowed, hands clenched.

Robert shrugged, surprised at Booker's heated feedback. "Something that'll help," he answered vaguely, maddening the already irate man even more. "Although, it seems that it affected you more than before…" his voice faded away thoughtfully.

"I should murder you for this," Booker hissed, adrenaline pulsing.

Robert absentmindedly began picking at his fingernails, disinterested. "You won't," he stated confidently, not the slightest bit frightened. Like it was a widely known fact.

"And why not?"

"Because I'm a friend," was Robert's simple answer. The honesty in Robert's tone was genuine, but still…

"That's questionable." Booker crossed his arms defiantly, staring down the smaller man. The only people that he considered as _friends_ were those who had saved his life more times than he could count, and definitely not those that gave him disgusting beer.

"Friends help each other," Robert insisted, not letting the matter die. "I'm helping you out of your debt."

"Well, I'm _not_ your friend," Booker retorted haughtily. He could feel his patience running out. Hell, a debt sounded better than spending Saturday nights with this man.

"Well, I guess you're, as your kind would say, '_shit out of luck_.'" Robert let out a sigh of despair, slumping his shoulders. "Now you'll _never_ find out where the girl is."

Booker ran a hand through his hair irritably. If only he had his gun with him, then he could just force Robert to tell him what he needed to know. "So basically, you're bribing me with information to be your friend."

A miniscule smile stretched across Robert's face, making him look smug. "Precisely."

Booker felt his anger deflate at his words. Robert, despite his odd antics, did genuinely seem to want to help him. He stretched his fingers out, loosening the tendons. "Okay, I'm your _friend_," he grumbled, rolling the word around in his mouth experimentally. "Now how do I get to the girl?"

Robert rolled his eyes in exasperation. "How about you use the _lever sitting right in front of you_? I simply cannot imagine what that could do," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Biting back a fiery retort, Booker turned around, and lo and behold, there was an honest to God lever there, just waiting to be pulled. He gave it a satisfying yank and the wall behind it suddenly moved apart, revealing itself to be a one-way mirror. Light flooded into the room, making Booker squint as his pupils adjusted. And beyond that…

Booker felt his breath hitch in his throat at the sight. She – the girl – was _alive_. A mixture of relief and disappointment flooded his body. It's not like he was expecting her to be dead or something, but he certainly wasn't expecting her to be painting a bloody picture of the Eiffel Tower. _Well, that certainly makes life a bit easier_, he thought. On the other hand, this meant that he had to stay in this damn city even longer.

Robert stepped up quietly next to him, also watching the girl. "She's certainly something for the eyes, isn't she?" he queried jokingly, winking sideways at Booker.

Booker shifted a bit uncomfortably. "Robert, she looks like she's a minor," he said uneasily.

Robert smirked at the other man's edginess. "Oh, _please_," he said with a dismissive wave of the hand. "She's twenty-something. Totally legal. Believe me," he continued, nudging Booker with a shoulder good-humoredly. "Her father would absolutely _murder_ me if I even touched her, let alone if she were under eighteen."

Booker's eyes became unfocused. For some reason, Robert's words made his thoughts muddled. "Um… sure," he replied, head spinning. Was this the second time something like this had happened?

He directed his attention on the girl to compose himself, slightly mystified by the delicate strokes of the brush against the canvas.

Suddenly, Robert grabbed him by the shoulders, spinning him so that they were face-to-face. Before Booker could object, Robert spoke. "Don't fall for her," he growled, his voice sounding angry for the first time since Booker had met him.

Booker shook his head in confusion, trying to wrest himself from Robert's surprisingly strong grip. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"The _girl_. Don't. Fall. For. Her."

Booker's eyes widened in shock as he grasped what Robert was saying. "No, no, no, no. Wait, what? Why would you – "

_Why ask what, when the most delicious question is when_? Booker's sight blurred, Robert's face becoming fuzzy and distorted. Where had he heard that from? _Goddammit, a third time_? his subconscious grumbled irritably.

Robert's voice grew louder, a beacon of light in Booker's jumbled mind. "It is absolutely _imperative_ that you do not become emotionally attached to her. Do you understand?" He shook Booker roughly at the end of each sentence, who flinched as he regained his awareness.

He raised his hands in alarm. "Christ, okay!" he cried, hoping that was enough to free himself. To his relief, Robert released his hold, lowered his arms and folded them neatly behind his back. "What the hell was that all about?"

"I must apologize for that," he said sincerely, a far cry from his earlier behavior. "My sister wanted me to relay that message to you."

Booker massaged his shoulder, restoring the circulation there. There were definitely going to be some bruises forming there. "Did she want you to manhandle me, too?"

Robert grinned a bit guiltily and patted his friend's arm apologetically. "That _might_ not have been excluded from the job description," he admitted sheepishly. "But I've heard that you shouldn't blame the messenger."

"So why does your sister care?" Just the thought of the woman in question made Booker's mood sour.

"To be quite frank, I believe because she's _never been touched by a man_." Robert deadpanned, his face completely devoid of emotion. Quickly, his poker face broke down and he began snickering like a grade school student. Somewhere, Rosalind was throwing a fit.

Booker snorted and cracked a grin. His new friend was – God forbid – growing on him.

"Also, since we're friends, I figured I could be a wingman for you." Robert waggled his eyebrows suggestively. Booker chuckled softly and shook his head, scratching an itch on his stomach. "Sorry buddy," he said apologetically. "But I'm just here to get my debt paid."

The other man's face fell. Booker clapped him on the shoulder strongly. "Hey, cheer up mate. Why are you so concerned, anyway?"

Robert wavered, appearing hesitant to respond. "Let's just say… that tragedies like these make for a pretty good show," Robert answered carefully. His whole body had become taut with tension.

Booker narrowed his eyes. "Who said this was going to end in a tragedy?" he retorted, his brief spout of camaraderie gone.

Suddenly, Robert relaxed, making Booker wonder if he had just imagined it. He raised both his shoulders and widened his eyes innocently. "A tragedy? Who said that? _I_ certainly didn't."

* * *

"_If you don't stand for something you will fall for anything."_

- Malcolm X

The heavy book struck him squarely in the face, flattening his nose with a muted _thump_. Booker groaned and blinked his eyes blearily as the sound of heels echoed across the room. _Well that escalated quickly_. For a moment, he was content to just lie on the ground, ignoring how badly he had fucked up this mission.

That is, until she started kicking him. He grunted as sharp jabs of pain spread across his abdomen.

With surprising agility, he jumped to his feet and snatched her by the wrists. "Would you – would you just _quit it_?" he barked over her furious screams.

The girl began pushing and shoving, but only managed to knock him back a few steps. "Who _are _you?" she snarled, trying desperately to break his grasp.

"My name's Booker DeWitt," he said automatically. "I'm a friend." _Trust me; you don't want to know any more._

"Are you _real_?" The terror in the girl's face was replaced with a look of awe. Booker, sensing the danger had passed, released his grip. He noticed that his fingers had left a red mark on her unblemished skin. He almost apologized, but the sting on his ribs convinced him otherwise.

Meanwhile, the girl reached out to lightly touch his cheek with a shaking hand. Booker eyed her pinkie a bit warily, wondering what the hell happened to it. "I'm real enough," he answered curtly. The faster they got out of this godforsaken tower, the better. He grabbed her arm by the elbow roughly.

"Listen here, uh - " Booker stuttered to a stop as he realized that he didn't even know her name. _Damn_, this was not going well. She cocked an eyebrow at him, a small smile forming on her lips. "Yes, Mr. DeWitt?"

Booker set his shoulders, and spoke in a professional tone. "Miss, I'm here to get you out – "

A high-pitched whistle interrupted him, the sound making his ears protest in pain. The girl's large eyes widened in panic, and her mouth morphed into a perfect "o".

Booker swung around to face the threat, but the sound was coming from… a statue?

Steam poured of two pipes in the back in rhythm with the whistle's tune. "No, wait!" the girl shrilled, her voice struggling to be heard amid the ruckus. "I'm getting dressed!" Booker opened his mouth to ask what the hell she was talking about, but it occurred to him that her words were directed at… the statue. He scratched his head in confusion.

The girl turned to him with an apologetic expression as the whistling died down. "Sorry about that," she said, not even the slightest bit fazed. "_He's_ very possessive."

Booker turned to look at her with a strange expression on his face. "Um, you got strict parents or something?" he asked cautiously.

She snorted derisively, hugging her body with her arms. "Oh, how I wish! I don't have any parents," she replied softly, her voice trembling a bit. Booker felt his heart soften a tad – he could relate.

Hesitatingly, he reached out to lay a hand on her shoulder. "Hey," he said clumsily, patting her a bit tentatively. "I know those kind of things suck, but I need you to focus. Focus on getting out of this tower. You understand?"

The girl sniffled, and then took in a shaky breath, raising her head to meet Booker's eyes. She nodded with determination. They held the eye contact for an unnecessarily long time, mainly due to the fact that Booker – damn, he sounded like a sappy fool – was just lost in them. There was something that he just couldn't put a finger to, and the longer he gazed into their icy blue depths, the more of a connection he felt to some lost memory. He narrowed his eyes as a name drifted into his consciousness. _Anna_?

The girl shifted a bit uncomfortably under his penetrating gaze. Her eyes dropped to his lips, and then she yelped, jumping away. "Mr. DeWitt – you're bleeding – "

_SCREECH_.

Booker clapped his hands over his ears, screwing his face together as the sound washed over him. The girl let loose a scream, fanning her face with her hands. "He's coming! He's coming, he's coming, he's _coming_!" Her hands began to wave wildly, and if Booker were in a different situation, he would've laughed at how deranged she looked.

Booker backed up a bit as her arms nearly whacked him in the face. He reached out and grabbed her shoulders, ears still ringing. "Hey, calm down, Missy!" he ordered sharply. She froze abruptly, her eyes boring into his. "Now give me a straightforward answer: _who is coming_?"

She gulped, but to her credit remained composed. "Songbird," she whispered, half reverently and half despairingly.

Booker smirked and relaxed a bit. "A little old songbird, huh?" he said cockily. "I'm sure I can handle – "

_SCREECH_.

The tower groaned as one of the walls crumpled in on itself, impacted by something huge. Booker watched, frozen to the ground, as one section of the wall was completely ripped away, littering the ground with debris. The screaming of warped metal filled his ears, which felt like they were about to fall off.

Booker instinctively reached for his pistol, only to grasp on empty air. He blew out a frustrated breath. Damn rockets.

_SCREECH_.

A huge yellow orb occupied the hole in the wall, surrounded by worn brown leather. Almost methodically, the yellow orb was gradually replaced by a blood-red colored orb, which slid into place with a satisfying metal _click_.

No verbal explanation was needed. Booker hightailed it towards the door, leaving behind a very bewildered girl, and probably some of his dignity. "_Fuck that_, let's move it!"

* * *

The girl squealed as a gush of wind knocked her over as soon as she stepped outside. Her hands scrabbled at the slick ground, struggling to find any hold. _Like a puppy on ice_, Booker thought off-handedly, laughing quietly at his own wit. An earsplitting screech from that damn bird brought him back to reality, and it sounded close. They were going to get mauled because this girl couldn't keep her footing for more than five bloody seconds.

Booker, reaching a decision, hurried over and roughly picked her up bridal-style. She yelped in surprise and weakly pounded on his chest as he began a steady ascent upwards. One of her fists knocked the air out of his stomach, causing him to stop and double over. "You're not helping!" he snarled, his breath coming out in ragged gasps.

"Put me down!" she demanded, her loud voice reverberating painfully in Booker's ears, but still he ignored her.

Legs pumping, he climbed up the path until they reached the very peak.

Booker stood exhaustedly, feeling like he had just conquered Mount Everest. Other than the wind pulling at their hair, there was no evidence of the leather beast. Booker frowned: had he only imagined it? The way things were going, he wouldn't have been surprised.

The girl peered at him from his hold. "So… what now?" she inquired, her once well-groomed hair now a disheveled mess.

Booker shifted his weight nervously on his feet. "Um, I don't know," he admitted honestly. Carefully, he helped the girl to her feet, ignoring the scandalous looks she gave.

She put her hands on her hips, not giving him any respite. "What type of knight-in-shining-armor are you?" she exclaimed in disbelief.

Booker, who was examining the empty air below the tower for possible escape routes, shot her a loaded look. "Honey," he said, his voice laden with contempt. "You are in the wrong fairytale. Do I look like a damn _knight_ to you?" He gestured to his tattered and worn-out clothing, covered in dust and sweat stains. "Knights are noble little bastards; the whole chivalry thing and serving the king and God knows what else." Booker shook his head in disgust, though whether at the concept or at himself, even he didn't know for sure. "I haven't done jack-shit for others."

The girl's glare softened, a little surprised by his degrading speech. "If anything, I'm the second-hand drunk thug that was just a bet to see how long he would last," he muttered ruefully. He looked down below to the Earth, and saw nothing but clouds and blue. Would he feel the pain of his body striking the ground before he died?

"Well, coming to rescue me was pretty unselfish," the girl offered halfheartedly, trying to lighten the conversation. Bless her soul – she didn't know a loss cause when she saw one.

Booker grunted in acknowledgement. "You think? We'll see about that." It certainly wasn't enough to save him from hell, but it was… something.

He looked up at her suddenly. "Do you trust me?"

"No," she answered immediately, with no hesitation. Shocked by her bluntness, she covered her mouth were her hands, shooting an apologetic glance at Booker. Booker simply nodded adamantly and waved away her unspoken words, not hurt by her truthfulness. He wouldn't either.

He sighed dramatically instead, plopping down on the ground in a heap. "Well, we're shit out of luck then." He patted the ground next to him as an invitation.

She eyed him with apprehension. "Are we just going to sit here?" Her expression was a textbook-perfect picture of disbelief.

Booker met her gaze unwaveringly. "Until you trust me, yes."

The girl hesitated for a minute or two, trying to think of other options. She even looked over the edge of the tower, to which Booker was a little offended to (he didn't look _that_ menacing, did he?). Gradually, she sat down next to him, carefully maintaining a safe distance between the two. Booker leaned his head back and closed his eyes, savoring the first rest he'd had in a very long time. He would have fallen asleep right then and there, if the girl hadn't started singing.

"_We shall reach the summer land,  
Some sweet day, by and by;  
We shall press the golden strand,  
Some sweet day, by and by."_

Her voice, soft yet crystalline, soothed his tormented ear drums that had been ravaged from the hellish noises of before.

"_By and by, some sweet day,  
We shall meet our loved ones gone."_

Booker opened his eyes and stretched his aching body. "You're a helluva singer," he said admiringly.

The girl jerked in surprise. Clearly, she thought he had died or gone into a coma. "I thought you were asleep." Or that.

_SCREECH_.

Showing impressive reaction speed, the girl jumped to her feet in distress. "He's coming, he's coming!"

"Yeah, yeah, I got the memo," Booker grumbled drily. He calmly stood up and dusted off his pants, a bit uselessly since they were so ratty.

The girl grabbed his arm, shaking it roughly. "_Why aren't you doing anything_?" she squealed, looking like she was about to wet herself.

Booker looked at her with amusement. "Do you trust me?" he queried again, his tone steady.

She rolled her eyes impatiently. "Oh _dear God_, okay." She ran both of her hands down her face, and then released a shaky breath, trying to calm herself down. "I trust you." Booker looked over her head and saw what appeared to be a dark shape headed towards them at a fast pace.

"We're friends?" It was coming closer with every second. Even now, he could see the murderous red glow of it eyes as it located its prey.

"Yes, yes, _yes – _we're friends!" She was near-hysterical, tears welling up in her eyes. Booker felt a little guilty for provoking her like this, but it wasn't his fault she was guarded by a damn persistent monster.

"Good," he said, satisfied. With a single fluid motion he wrapped a strong arm around her petite waist and lifted her up like a sack of potatoes. Not wasting any time, he jumped off of the tower, leaving only the girl's horrified screams trailing in their wake.

Overhead, the bird screamed in fury as it crashed into the location they had just been at, unable to stop its forward momentum. Pieces of debris began to fall, narrowly missing the freefalling couple.

"Are you _crazy_?" the girl bellowed, still managing to look furious.

Booker grinned wildly at her, and maybe with a tad of insanity. It occurred to him suddenly that he didn't even know the girl's name, and now they were falling to their probable deaths. She was right: he was a terrible knight-in-shining-armor.

"Hey," he barked on an impulse. "What's your name?"

She looked at him with bewilderment at the randomness of his question. "E – Elizabeth."

Booker nodded, making sure to remember the name. It was a bit degrading to think of her as "the girl" all the time.

Struggling against the wind resistance, he reached out with his left arm, activating the Skyhook. It began to spin wildly, searching for anything magnetic to cling to. This plan was a gamble, and he knew it. But if there was anything Booker DeWitt could excel at, it was gambling.

Nevertheless, with each passing second, the dread in his gut grew, overtaking the earlier cockiness.

Suddenly, he felt their momentum shift more to the right, and he breathed out a sigh of relief. The skyrail came into view quickly, a long glittering hallelujah to his woes.

The impact of them colliding into the rail made him black out for a few seconds as he took the brunt of the force. His arm slipped around her body, but immediately straightened itself. _If she goes, you go. _Their breakneck pace slowed down considerably to a much more manageable and comfortable breeze.

For a few moments there was silence, as Booker took in their surroundings. They had broken through the layer of clouds, and now he could clearly see the destination their rail was taking them to: a shimmering oasis of water somehow suspended in the sky. Battleship Bay.

A small movement at his chest reminded him of the bundle that was nestled there. Booker glanced at her with concern. "You okay?"

For a moment, there was no response as Elizabeth hid her face from view. Finally, she spoke. "You saved me," she said, her voice muffled by his chest. Gradually, she tilted her head so that they were face-to-face. Booker was astonished to see tears – happy, joyful tears – flowing down her cheeks.

Booker's face split into a genuine smile, probably the first since he had arrived in the city. "That's what friends do," he said, thinking back to Robert's words.

Damn, he really was growing on him.

**I apologize for the long wait for this update! These really do take a long time to write, and it doesn't help that I prefer to proofread them about a hundred times. Still, I'd rather publish something that I'm fully satisfied of, and not something that I have misgivings about.**

**Thanks to all of you for the huge amount of support I got for the first chapter. It really means a lot to me, and I hope you continue to enjoy this story.**


	3. The Caged Bird

_"What can wash away my sin?  
Nothing but the blood of Jesus;  
What can make me whole again?  
Nothing but the blood of Jesus."_

_God, what happened_? Stars appeared in his line of sight and he groaned in pain. It felt like there were bloody needles being pushed into his skull; red-hot ones. He resolved himself to just lying there, feeling the grittiness of the sand on his cheek, and waiting for the throbbing to pass. He had been through worse during the military, so he wasn't too surprised.

What did surprise him was the feeling of something soft and cool against his lips. Booker opened his eyes and froze, stunned. That damn girl's face was inches away from his. Needless to say, _way_ too close for comfort.

"Whoa!" Booker exclaimed, attempting to push her back, but only managed in losing his balance. Giving up, he propped himself on his elbows, feeling the warmth in his cheeks as blood pooled into them. "What are you _doing_?" he asked weakly.

Elizabeth drew back quickly, startled by his negative reaction. "Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation!" she replied, her eyes wide.

"What?" The pounding in his head was making it nearly impossible for him to form coherent thoughts, let alone pay attention to her high-pitched voice.

The girl huffed in annoyance. "I read it in a book somewhere!"

"_What_?" This whole ordeal was really too much embarrassment for him to handle. Actually, what was he embarrassed about?

"You weren't breathing and I panicked, and I thought that – "

Booker motioned for her to stop with a shaky hand. "Okay, okay, whatever. Let's just forget that ever happened." He lay back down and closed his eyes, feeling the headache returning in full force.

He could feel her presence next to him still, fretting over him like a mother hen. "How did I get here?" he managed, through the pain.

The girl paused briefly before responding, laying a cool hand on his forehead. "You… fell asleep while we were on the rail." She paused, only for him to hear her giggle.

Irritated, he smacked playfully in her general direction. "Hey," he growled. "You try holding a screaming girl for more than an hour on zero hours of sleep."

Elizabeth tapped him lightly on the head in response, causing him to fade out for a second. "At least I didn't get hurt. You make a very nice cushion."

Booker snorted and opened his eyes, regretting the decision as the light blinded him. "Yeah, whoop-de-doo for that. Just... just give me some time. Go and do something… girls do." He made a shooing motion feebly with his hand.

A smile twitched onto the edge of her lips. "Okay, Mr. DeWitt! I – I won't take long, I promise!" With that, she scurried off like an overeager puppy.

Booker's only response was a muffled snore.

* * *

_"Some birds are meant to be caged, that's all."_

- Stephen King

It took him nearly an hour to find the girl, involving ventures into suspicious alleys and conversations with some of the rudest civilians Booker had ever met. Either they were just having a bad day or were born that way, but that didn't stop Booker from feeling like they had a stick shoved up their ass.

It certainly didn't help that he had a paralyzing headache pounding with every step he took. Hell, he'd had some crazy nights of drinking, and even they weren't _this_ bad. "A hangover and a missing girl?" he mused softly. _Been there, done that_.

But there was one thing that he certainly did _not_ do.

"I don't dance," he grumbled uselessly, as she yanked him forward with surprising force, bringing him into the little musical circle. The girl put one hand on his waist and the other in his hand, before settling her head on his chest contentedly. Booker blinked. _Well, that escalated quickly_.

He tried to peel her off, but she only tightened her grip like a damn leach. He sighed, shaking his head, resigning himself to looking like a fool. One of the men in the circle let out a wolf-whistle, while the others clapped with delight. Booker glared at him, daring him to do it again, ignoring the faint blush that rose to his cheeks. "Can we get moving?" he groaned, swaying without rhythm to the music.

Elizabeth looked up at him, a pout on her face. "Why? What could be better than _this_?" Her eyes sparkled and danced in the sunlight, while her low ponytail ruffled slightly in the breeze. If Booker was a starry-eyed sap, he would've been happy just to spend the rest of his life here; it really did feel like paradise.

But Booker could think of hundreds of more things that were better than "this": beer, money, liquor, a life free from guilt, and wine. None of which would interest Elizabeth in the slightest. Except maybe…

"How about Paris?"

She looked surprised for a moment, before looking at him doubtfully. "_Paris_?" she questioned. "How would we get to – "

Booker pointed up to a zeppelin in the sky, thanking whatever god there was for putting it up there, right when he needed it. "We'll hitch a ride on that airship over yonder," he replied, rejoicing when Elizabeth stopped dancing to look up at it. "The _First Lady's Airship_," she read to herself. "But how – "

"Hey, if you want to just dance here, then that's fine with me," he said dismissively. _Please, please, please say no_.

Elizabeth gasped. "No! No, let's get out of here!" she practically squealed. She laughed into the air with pure joy, grabbing his hand and swinging it in circles. "Paris! Paris, Paris, _Paris_!"

Booker mumbled something under his breath before grabbing her by the shoulder, stopping her ecstatic celebrations. "Now listen here," he ordered sternly. "You stay focused, okay? The more you're focused, the quicker we get to Paris, understand?"

He didn't give a shit about lying. It's not like he actually cared for the girl. But still, he couldn't quell the nervous fluttering in the bottom of his stomach, nor could he figure out why it was there in the first place.

The girl nodded, instantly pulling up a solemn mask of indifference. "Of course, Mr. DeWitt! I'll focus! You won't hear a peep from me!"

* * *

"Oh _my goodness_ – look at them!" Elizabeth sprinted towards a couple selling jewelry, excitement practically radiating from her pores.

Booker moaned. The silence was too good to last. _I'll stay focused – my ass_, he swore. And of _course_, the couple just had to be _the_ couple. At this point, he had given up on asking how they were keeping track of him. It just made his head hurt.

"Oh, I just can't decide!" Elizabeth exclaimed, drawing Booker's attention towards her. She grabbed one of the pendants from the couple and put it on her choker. "Is this one better than the other?" She posed, placing a hand on her hip, before breaking down into a fit of giggles.

Booker shrugged, nonplussed. "It's alright, I guess."

Robert clucked his tongue disapprovingly behind her. "Only _alright_?" Elizabeth looked at him, crestfallen.

"I mean – you look nice and everything, but you look better without it, you know?" Booker felt himself grow flustered. Dammit, why was everyone looking at him?

"It makes… you look like you're wearing a dog collar," he finished lamely, sheepishly scratching his neck.

"A _dog_?" she repeated, putting her hands on her hips. She looked at him in disbelief. _Wrong choice of words, DeWitt_.

He gulped and took a step back. "A pretty dog?" he offered weakly.

"At least that gives you an excuse to call her – forgive my language – a _bitch_," Robert interjected loudly.

"_What_?" Rosalind cried, turning to face the grinning offender. Booker resisted giving Robert a high five for drawing the attention away from him. "Um, what the hell?"

Elizabeth just stood bemusedly, her head tilted to one side in confusion.

Robert chuckled and shrugged. "Sorry, couldn't resist the jibe. Actually, now that I think about it…" He turned to his sister with the remaining pendant. "You want one, too?" His straight face quickly dissolved into giggles at the scandalous look she gave him.

She smacked the pendant out of his hand, turning his laughter into a strangled yelp. "_Really_?"

Robert smirked at her, nursing his stinging fingers. "Yes, _really_."

Booker rolled his eyes as they really started to get at each other. "Here, just take the thing off," he told the girl. "They're probably going to charge us a shitload for it anyways."

Reluctantly, Elizabeth unclasped it and placed it in his open palm. He tossed it at Robert, not even bothering to check if he caught it.

"Come on, let's get moving." Booker put a hand on her slim shoulder, guiding her past the bickering couple.

An outstretched hand stopped him. "Where do you think you're going? Did you think we were done with you two yet?" Robert attempted to push him back but made no progress. He gave another shove, while Booker watched, amused. "You need something, pal?"

Robert glared at him. "Could you – stop – just, never mind." He straightened out and smoothed out his suit, a bit ruffled. He slicked his hair back with a quick motion, switching back to his professional aura.

"Now. Do you know why the caged bird sings?" he asked simply. The lady glanced at him with a baffled look before smoothing out her emotions. Booker studied his face, trying to see if this was a joke or not, and was disappointed to not find any sign of humor in Robert's eyes.

He sighed and crossed his arms impatiently. _Maybe if I ignore them enough, they'll get the hint_, he thought hopefully.

Robert gave a bashful grin to Booker, like he could read his mind. "Booker, please. We just want you to answer the question. We'll leave you be afterward, I promise."

Booker let out a breath, running a hand through his hair. The deal seemed too good to be true. "Hell, I have no damn clue," he grumbled finally. "Do I look like a bloody bird to you?"

Robert and the lady both glanced at each other, before propping their elbows on a hand and tapping their chins.

"Hmm, now that you mention it…" Robert contemplated him, a somewhat patronizing tone in his voice.

Elizabeth sniggered under her breath, while Booker rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand. Wasn't Robert supposed to be on his side? They had a saying for that in the army… "brothers before lovers". Or was it "bores before whores"?

The lady smiled in amusement, probably at the sight of him being exasperated. Bitch. "You know, we'll leave you alone once you answer our question," she said. "We just want to know why a caged bird would sing. It seems like a rather unusual sight. Or at least, it does to _him_," she added, her eyes shooting daggers at Robert, who merely shrugged.

Booker glared at her, thinking through in his head the possibilities. Was a conversation with them worth being left alone? "I think it sings…" he began slowly, gathering together his thoughts. "Because it's a fucking bird, and birds fucking sing." He raised his hands above his head in frustration, his face tinted red. "That's what birds do. Am I done now?"

"Booker…" Robert's voice held a warning tone. He sighed. "Let's try it this way. How would you feel if you were the bird in the cage?"

The other man surveyed him suspiciously. "I'd be… pretty pissed off," he answered with reluctance.

"And why is that?"

"Because I just got forced to be in a cage. Wouldn't that piss you off, too?"

"I'll let you know when that happens." Robert met his gaze patiently, irritating Booker further.

"Am I done?"

"Not quite." Robert picked at a hangnail, fluttering his fingers in the air. "Would you sing, if you were that bird?"

"Oh, hell no," Booker snapped. "I'm not giving the bastard what he wants."

Robert furrowed his brow, looking up from his hand. "But – "

"Listen, I've had a lifetime of doing shit other people tell me to do. I've killed and maimed hundreds for someone else's dirty laundry." A score of memories flashed by his eyes – bloodied and bruised strikers, motionless natives, and… He closed his eyes, trying to drown out the heaviness that weighed in his heart.

"And I regret all of it. So I'll make my own decisions, thank you very much." He made it pretty clear that he was done with the conversation. Robert opened his mouth, but thankfully was cut off.

"Are we… still talking about birds?" chirped a small voice behind him. Elizabeth.

"Well…now that's not my decision now, is it?" Robert recovered quickly and winked at Booker, who grimaced in return. "Robert, you're an ass."

"I'd have to agree with him," admitted the woman. Booker looked at her in astonishment, catching her eye for a moment. She tilted her head snottily, nose in the air. "Against my better judgment, I have to say."

"Let's get going, dear," interrupted Robert, before Booker could bite back a nasty retort. "I hear they're showing a play at the theater house…" He slung an arm around her shoulders easily, guiding her away from the puzzled looks behind them. "A romantic tragedy, I heard."

"Not _Romeo and Juliet_?"

"Close, but not quite."

"I'm not sure if I would enjoy that."

"_Et tu, Brute_?" Their voices faded away as the melded into the crowd.

Elizabeth was gazing at the pendant in Robert's hands with undisguised longing.

"Don't even think about it," Booker grunted, snatching her arms and jogging away.

* * *

They came across a rather rundown hallway, with two bathrooms located on the sides. Without a word, Booker turned and trudged into the men's. Behind him, he heard the girl's heels click against the floor intermittently, like she was debating whether or not to follow him. He smiled slightly at himself and turned to her face her at the door.

"You know, you don't have to follow me in," he said simply, guessing correctly at her reason of indecision. She looked at him, eyes wide. "Oh! Okay." She brushed a strand of hair away from her face nervously. "I – I guess I'll wait for you here then, Mr. DeWitt?"

Booker nodded and headed towards the sink and mirror. It smelled terrible, like a dead rat had been left fermenting here for about a month. Holding in his breath, Booker turned on the rusty faucet and splashed his face with the water, trying hard not to imagine where that water had been. He looked at his reflection in the glass, observing the red-rimmed eyes and five o'clock shadow that adorned his appearance. _Man, I look like shit_. He grinned a bit ruefully.

A high-pitched scream came from the hall, echoing into the bathroom. "_Get your hands off of me!_"

He saw his eyes widen in the mirror, alarmed.

Another scream, followed by the deep-voiced laughter of a man.

Booker sprinted out of the bathroom, ramming the doors open with a shove.

Three men were surrounding the girl and had her by the arms. She was struggling and punching and kicking and actually putting up a pretty good fight, but to no avail. The posse was in a jolly good mood; laughing and joking, and one even had his dirty paw over her mouth.

Elizabeth's eyes were darting around wildly, searching for an escape route. Hers met his, and the desperation and fear in them made his heart pang.

Booker felt a fuse blow in his head. Those sick bastards...

"Get your hands off of her!" he roared, stomping his way over. His voice echoed powerfully off of the walls, and the men jumped backward, frightened… until they realized that there were three of them and only one of him. The quickest to recover, presumably the leader of the group, lumbered forward with a swagger. "Hey _pretty boy_, I think you should just leg it," he sneered, showing yellowed teeth. "She's ours."

Booker stood defiantly, staring him down with an angry glare.

_That guy looks awfully familiar_, Booker thought, in the back of his head. _Maybe from the ra_ -

The man's eyes widened in recognition, and then he grinned crookedly. "Oh, bo-oys!" he sang, dragging out the syllables. "I think I found our _chocolate-lover_ over here!" He clapped his hands together like he had made some fantastic joke. The other two began hooting loudly, Elizabeth swinging in their grasp.

Booker stepped forward until he and the man were nose-to-nose, although the other man had a few inches on him. The stench of whiskey was permeating from the man's body, making Booker's eyes water. _Probably from that belly of his_, Booker thought with disdain, noting the ample-sized stomach jutting out. "Pal, I don't give a _shit_ what you think of me, but if you don't give me my girl back, then we're going to have some problems."

The man snorted and turned a hand back to point at Elizabeth, still managing to keep eye contact with Booker. "The way I see it, you don't need a little white angel like her." He tapped his chin mockingly, and then snapped his fingers. "I have an idea," he bellowed sarcastically. "Let's have a deal! You give us babycakes over there, and we'll let you run off with all the Negros you want. Or," he added, his voice dropping into a low whisper. "We can show the lovely lady what you look like with your guts out." He smoothly undid a button on his jacket and peeled the top part of it away, revealing a holstered pistol underneath.

Booker settled his weight onto his toes and bent his knees, preparing for action. "Or how about this," he snarled. "You _fuck_ off!"

With that, he sent a left hook at the man's nose, looking for a quick knock-out. Booker expected to feel the painful sensation of flesh and bone colliding, but he felt something else. Something… foreign.

The Skyhook on his left arm lodged into the man's face with amazingly little effort, almost like it had been made to do so. The man looked at him in shock for a split second, and then the hook began to spin mercilessly. Blood splattered Booker in the face, stinging his eyes.

"Holy _shit_!"

The two men staggered backwards, fumbling with their buttons to presumably grab their own handguns. Booker shoved the broken body onto the ground – ignoring the gore that sprayed outward – and grabbed the pistol. The thugs barely managed to even brush the handle of their weapons before twin cracks split the air, and ragged holes appeared in their chest. They fell to the ground, scarlet staining the unpolished linoleum.

Booker lowered his gun, feeling the familiar touch of bloodlust throb in his head. He grinned wickedly at his handiwork. _Damn_, that was way too easy. It felt good to be in control for once.

And then he looked up and saw Elizabeth's expression. Pure horror. Blood stained the side of her dress. Booker's mind went blank for a moment. _Oh, shit_, he cursed. _This might be a bit awkward_.

Hesitantly, he took a step forward. "Um, Elizabeth…?"

She bolted. "_Get away from me, you monster_!" she screamed, pushing through a door like the devil himself was chasing her.

Booker smacked himself in the forehead. "How am _I _the monster here?" he asked incredulously to no one in particular, sprinting after her.

* * *

Following in her footsteps, Booker pushed open the door, revealing a large gathering of citizens in the massive circular room. Every single one of them had their eyes riveted to a man standing in the very center, elevated by a tall platform. The man seemed larger than life, towering over the crowd with his mere presence, despite the great age that was alluded to by his massive white beard. When he opened his mouth to speak, the crowd listened reverently, not a single voice daring to interrupt his charismatic tune.

Booker, on the other hand, had a different agenda, and that did not involve listening to crazy old crackers. Darting his eyes around, they finally landed on a small figure in a dress at the very outskirts of the group, trying to head towards the exit. One that looked very much like…

"Elizabeth," Booker hissed. Somehow, his voice carried over to the girl, who turned her head to the sound. Almost comically, her eyes widened in alarm and she began to desperately weave through the bystanders.

Booker sighed, and with striding steps made fast progress towards her, ignoring the speaker's preaching.

"_John Winthrop dreamt of a beautiful haven in the New World, from which the Lord would shine his grace upon. He spoke of a city upon a hill, from which it would overlook civilization and be the shining beacon of prosperity._

_Mr. Winthrop, I wave down to you from my city upon the clouds_."

The listeners murmured among themselves in agreement. One man shouted "amen", which was quickly repeated by several others.

The girl could hardly make any leeway in the tightly packed crowd. With every step she took, he was five feet closer. Soon, he was within arm's reach of her.

"_The rabble below is filth._" The speaker punched his palm with his fist to emphasize.

_"Their meager offerings to the Lord cannot even compare with my accomplishments. They follow their so-called presidents, chosen by the people. We follow prophets, chosen by God himself_."

Booker's hand clamped down on Elizabeth's slim arm, startling her. "Go away!" she half-whispered, half-snarled. Desperately, she tried to shove him off, to no avail. However, the people standing nearby shifted their attention to them. Booker frowned – this situation could get a bit hairy.

"_The city on the hill, or the city in the skies?"_

The crowd hurried to reply. "The skies! The skies, of course," they chanted as one. Their voices passed over Booker's head as he drowned them out and kept hold of the unruly girl. He pulled her into a sort-of bear hug, smothering the rest of her resistance against his body. Thankfully, some had decided that were uninteresting enough and turned around, but still more brought prying eyes over.

"Say, isn't that the Lamb?" a man murmured, his voice carrying across the room. Others picked their heads up curiously.

"The Lamb?"

"Hey everyone, _the Lamb is here_!"

The whole crowd had turned towards them suddenly, at the notion of seeing their beloved lamb up close. In the hands of a disheveled man with a gun.

Booker blanched. _Oh shit_.

A stunned silence followed, each side unable to comprehend the situation. Finally, the pastor on the podium spoke, his voice seemingly charming and fatherly. "Son, may I ask why you are holding my Lamb?"

Elizabeth had frozen in fear with a death-grip on his arm. Booker swallowed drily, perspiration forming on his forehead. The man's stare penetrated his very soul. Despite his good-natured tone, there was no denying the fury in his eyes.

"_Your_ lamb?" he finally croaked out, his voice measly compared to the smooth baritone of the other. "You don't look like a fucking sheep to me."

Gasps of horror erupted at his words. One woman even fainted, collapsing to the ground in a heap, her husband fanning her urgently. The man simply crinkled his face into a not-so-friendly smile. "And yet you don't look like a False Shepherd to me. Appearances are deceiving. Intentions are not."

His arm had gone numb from the girl's hold. "I'm not your damn shepherd!" barked Booker, frustrated. Remembering the poster from the fair earlier, he held up his fist. "See? Isn't your shepherd supposed to have a mark or something?"

For a moment, the man appeared to be stumped. His eyes bounced between Booker's face and his unmarked fist. A cold smile appeared, not reaching his eyes. "You must be the exception to the rule. Why else would a man like you try and steal my Lamb? What, for _love_?" He scoffed, rolling his eyes at the thought. "Or for a _debt_ that has to be paid?"

Booker didn't need to even check what was dripping from his nose. He felt a tug at his arm and turned to face Elizabeth. "Booker," she said, her eyes suspicious and calculating. "What debt is he talking about? Why _did_ you come here?"

Booker gritted his teeth, caught in a corner. "Er…" He couldn't risk compromising her trust – she would flip shit if she knew that she was just a means to an end.

She ripped herself from his grip, taking a step away from him. Booker swore; this was definitely not going well. "Answer him!" she demanded heatedly.

He grabbed her hand desperately. "Listen. It's a long story and, uh – just trust me, okay?" He squeezed her hand, ignoring his own racing heart.

She shook her head. "I don't know – "

"Don't believe in his lies," the man thundered. "A snake has the ability to shed its skin, but it will always be filthy and backstabbing. You may not appear as a False Shepard, but there is no denying the rotten core within your soul."

A shrill whistle sounded through the air, and a line of police appeared at the man's side, their guns and clubs raised. "With the Lord as my witness, let it be known that I, Zachary Comstock, have found the False Shepard, and I will do all that is in my power to stop him, for he dares to usurp my Eden." He raised a crooked finger at Booker. "Seize him!"

Booker was way ahead of him. By the time the order had reached his ears, his pistol had already barked a dozen times, smoke curling from its tip. Nine soldiers fell, crumpling instantly with motionless eyes. The remaining few charged him, yelling battle cries and obscenities.

Panic erupted instantly. The crowd screamed, struggling to fit out the exits. Booker smirked and reloaded his pistol, shaking his head. He could bring this city to its knees, blindfolded.

Almost lazily, he flicked his hand up, squeezing the trigger into the face of the officer closest to him, before emptying the rest of the magazine into the last two enemies. "Where's your army now, Mr. Comstock?" he taunted, his voice echoing off of the now empty room's walls.

Comstock was mostly unperturbed. "Even if I were to perish by your hands, I will have won, for I know that the Lord will grant me entrance to his paradise." He paused, stroking his beard. "You will never be granted the same honor," he added. "A pity and a waste. You could have become so much more."

For some reason, this offended Booker. He raised his arm, lining up the old geezer's face in the pistol's iron sights. "Well I'll see you in hell, bitch," he snarled viciously, preparing to pull the trigger. Suddenly, he felt the girl yank him backwards, pulling him off-balance. He batted her away effortlessly. "What the hell are you doing?" he barked furiously.

She gave him a scornful look, before placing her hands in front of her and pulling at something invisible. She let out a grunt of effort, droplets of sweat forming on her temple from the strain. Booker ignored her and raised his gun again. "Let's try this again," he muttered.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of grey appear between her hands, rippling like it was in a breeze. Elizabeth made a satisfied sound and threw her arms outward. Light streamed from the grey spot, blinding him. Booker gave a strangled yelp and covered his face with his arms. "What the _hell_ did you – "

His voice faltered as he raised his head from cover.

Gone was the crusty Comstock person. Gone were the pools of blood and facedown corpses.

Instead, there were gleeful shoppers and streets upon streets of little shops. Music flowed through the air, while giant statues of red, white and blue eagles littered the sidewalks. Hordes of ice cream-eating children skipped along the paved cobblestone road.

Booker turned on the girl, who had fallen to the ground in a heap. "Where the _fuck_ are we?" He could almost see Robert's disapproving glare. _Is that any way to talk to a lady_?

The girl crossed her arms and turned her head to the side with a huff, refusing to face him. "Some place where you won't _kill anyone_." She was trying to look and sound tough, but her voice trembled and cracked. Booker hung his head, his anger fading. "Elizabeth…" He sighed when she continued to ignore him.

"Elizabeth, look at me!"

She kept her nose pointed up in the air. Sometimes he forgot that she had the personality of a snooty little kid. _Damn, I'm never going to let my kid be this sheltered_, he grumbled mentally.

"What did you do? How the hell did we get here?" He put both his hands on his head, pulling at the hair there. When she didn't respond, he closed his eyes, breathing deeply to calm himself down.

"It was a tear," she told him curtly, not bothering to elaborate.

Booker squinted at her and cocked his head. "A what?"

She finally turned to face Booker fully, her eyes rimmed red. "Are you going to kill me too if I don't tell you?" she hissed viciously.

Booker recoiled, surprisingly hurt by her accusation. "Hey, watch it – "

"You don't get what you want by _murdering_," she said, a tear sliding down her cheek. "These people have families and lives of their own, and you just blew that all away like you don't give a darn! You're a monster! No, wait – you're just a _bad person_." With that said, she wiped her face dry with her blouse and tried to get up, averting his smoldering gaze.

Booker could feel his heart harden and the last shred of his patience die out. He grabbed her by the chin roughly, forcing her to look at him. "Listen here," he snarled in an undertone. "I'm not here to be some kind of saint. I'm not here to make everyone happy. I'm here to get you the _hell_ out of here, and I'm not letting shit stop me."

She wrinkled her nose in disgust and attempted to push his hand away, failing to make him move even an inch. "But you're a _killer_," she shot back. "If I'd have known that, I wouldn't have – "

"You wouldn't have _what_? Come with me?" Booker's voice rose to a shout, causing the people nearby to glance over curiously. "Do you realize the measures these bastards went through to keep you locked up? They're not just going to let you waltz out of here like you own the damn place. No – they're going to fight tooth-and-nail to get you back, and it's my job to keep that from happening."

Defeated, Elizabeth averted her gaze, looking downward. "That doesn't mean you have to kill them," she mumbled dejectedly.

"Killing's all I'm good for. Take it or leave it," he countered bitterly. A shadow fell on them suddenly, giving them a reprieve from the relentless sun. Booker tilted his head up, squinting at the enormous airship that passed over them, barely brushing over the tops of the towers.

"That's our ride," he told the girl, who was still moping on the ground. "It looks like it's docking, so we better hurry to catch up to it."

He paused, studying her slumped shoulders. "I'm… sorry for being an ass to you," he mumbled finally. "It seems like that's the only version of me you're going to get."

The corners of her lips jerked upward. "I'm sorry I was a brat."

Booker smiled at her gently. "I'm sorry for killing people aggressively in front of your virgin eyes."

She laughed somewhat sadistically. "And I'm sorry for stopping you from killing someone you probably should have killed."

Booker held out a hand. "Are we good now?" He wasn't exactly sure how that cheered her up, but he wasn't going to question it either.

The girl glanced at him skeptically. "You're a devilishly handsome thug and criminal, Mr. DeWitt – "

"Call me Booker."

"Okay, _Booker_," she ventured, rolling his name off her tongue. "But you're also my only way to Paris." She grasped his hand firmly, allowing herself to be pulled up ungracefully.

Immediately, she jabbed a finger into his chest, her face stern. "I don't like associating myself with crooks," Elizabeth said accusingly, pushing hard into his sternum so that he winced in pain.

Her face softened. "But, I don't think you're a crook. You're a better man than that, _Booker_, and I think you can change." She patted him on the shoulder gently, and then took in his unfocused and glazed appearance. "Did you hear a word I was saying?"

Booker started, eyes fluttering wide. "I – uh – "

Elizabeth glowered at him critically. "Did I just waste five minutes telling you something you don't even – "

"I'm… devilishly handsome?"

**Well, I like to procrastinate. A lot. Hope all of you enjoy this chapter!**


	4. Just a Game

"_I've been here before  
It's hard to ignore  
I'm so used to fighting  
The same old war."_

"Hot dogs, hot dogs, git your pipin'-hot hot dogs here!" The vendor waved his hands wildly in Booker's direction, desperately trying to get his attention. "Hey, fella over there! How bout one for you and your lovely lady? Ladies love a nice _long_ dog, if y'know what I mean," he simpered, winking at Booker. Elizabeth, bless her soul, turned a deep shade of red and started babbling about how they weren't a couple, stumbling over her words clumsily.

Booker rolled his eyes and flipped a coin at the vendor, who swiftly handed the food to the flustered girl, but not before whispering something in her ear. If possible, she blushed even more and mumbled a muted "thanks" to the man. Booker eyed him suspiciously as they strode away. Apparently, they could only walk around for ten minutes at most before someone creepy bothered them.

"How _old_ are you?" Elizabeth asked, pointedly refusing to look him in the eye. Booker, amused, glanced at her scarlet cheeks. The girl literally looked like an overripe tomato. "South of thirty, and just north of you," Booker replied simply, ending that short exchange. They walked to the ice cream parlor and sat at a table as Elizabeth ate.

Booker didn't mind the awkward silence between them, but she did seem to be fidgeting a little too much for his liking. "Hey, Elizabeth," he said, trying to get her attention. She didn't appear to have heard him, her eyes looking at everything but him. "_Hey_! Anyone here?" he growled, tapping her forehead with a stiff finger.

Her eyes shot up, startling him with their bright color. "Huh?" she responded.

Booker snorted at her inattentiveness. "Are you okay in there? You seem a bit… frazzled," he said gruffly.

Elizabeth picked at her food. "The man, he said something to me," she muttered.

"Was it something bad? Because then I'll have to kick – " Booker started to get up from his seat, his fists clenched.

"No!" Elizabeth grabbed his arm to stop him. "No, it wasn't bad. Well, I don't know if it was bad, because I don't know what it meant." She removed her hand and fingered her blouse nervously. "It was about you," she finished, her voice fading.

Booker furrowed his eyebrows. "About me," he said slowly, waiting for her to elaborate. When she didn't he simply shrugged and leaned back in his chair. Some things are better left unsaid.

But Elizabeth wouldn't stop playing with her damn shirt, and her hot dog was only half-eaten. Booker sighed at the notion of his hard-earned cash being wasted. He gestured to her food.

"Hey, are you gonna finish – "

She interrupted him, her voice so loud that bystanders turned to look at them. "Hey Booker, what's sex?"

* * *

"_Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad."_

- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

"Booker, do you kill people a lot?" Elizabeth asked suddenly. They were casually ambling towards the gondola boarding area, since Booker had elected to try and not attract too much attention by sprinting through crowds. He had already endured countless other meaningless queries, from his favorite color (blue), to what was his favorite food (anything washed down with beer), and most importantly of all, his favorite celebrity (Teddy Roosevelt).

This time, Booker coughed awkwardly, tugging at the now-clean red kerchief that hung around his neck. The girl had begged to stop at a bathroom to wash the blood off their clothing. Reluctantly, he had agreed, but now he was starting to regret the decision. For one, he didn't particularly like smelling of flowers and roses, since she had offered to clean everything.

The girl in question cleared her throat impatiently next to him, her bright blue eyes boring into his head. Booker shrugged sheepishly. "I guess so," he mumbled finally.

"Why?" _Damn, she could have made a good detective_, he thought resentfully.

Booker sighed. "It was – is, my job."

"And you enjoy it." It was more of an accusation than anything else.

He tripped over his feet slightly, caught off-guard by the bluntness. "Uh – "

"I _saw_ you grinning like a madman after you murdered those poor fellows – "

"I didn't murder them, it was self-defense!" he countered, his arms raised in a defensive stance. Dried blood was splattered on his shirt sleeve, leaving suspicious dark brown patches. He winced, remembering the scene vividly. Maybe he should have taken his shirt off and gotten it cleaned.

"Then why did you smile?"

Booker remained silent for a moment, thinking it over in his head. Elizabeth watched with a type of triumphant air, tapping a toe to the ground. If he ignored her, she would keep asking. And if he answered… _looks like a lose-lose for me_.

Booker swallowed drily, fearing her reaction. _Who gives a shit what she thinks about you? _"Because it… makes me feel like a winner." Just saying that awful truth left a bitter taste in his mouth, like they were poisonous.

Elizabeth's face morphed into a mixture of disgust and confusion. _What a surprise_. "A – a winner?"

Booker stuffed his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders. "You've got to understand here; I've had a pretty shitty life. I… I was younger back then, and I didn't know any better." He kept his eyes straight forward. The shame and regret in his voice was all too evident.

"When you kill someone, it makes you feel powerful. Well, as long as you don't throw up," he added, seeing her revolted reaction. "It's like winning a game."

"A game," she repeated. Disbelief, and quite a bit of distress, was clearly evident in her eyes.

"Well, kind of. Someone wins and someone dies in a game, right? There's always a winner and a loser. And since I'm obviously still around…" He gave a half-shrug, feeling uncomfortable.

Elizabeth chewed her bottom lip, looking troubled. "But… don't you feel regret for taking someone's life? It's more than just a game."

The sun beat down on Booker's face, burning the sensitive skin on his nose. Right now, Booker was wishing for two things: some shade, and something to shut the girl up.

"I used to. But some people deserve it."

She scoffed at the notion. "Like who?"

Booker glanced at her. "Like who?" He could name hundreds of different types of people, from rapists to kidnappers, to corrupted politicians that drained the pennies from his paycheck. But one idea thrust itself to the forefront of his mind, and he just couldn't deny it any longer.

"Like me," he said simply.

That shut her up fast. Booker smiled sadly at the pitying look on her face. All he needed now was some shade, and he would be… better.

* * *

"So, Booker…" Elizabeth turned to face him, her hands on her hips. Apparently, she found something else to pester him about. _Probably about how many babies I've murdered_, he thought listlessly.

"Is there a woman in your life?" Her cheeks became a little rosy, but she remained rather composed.

Booker shook his head curtly, his mood souring instantly. _Of all the questions in the world_… "No."

She pouted at his stunted reply. "Oh, come on – you can't just leave me hanging like that!" she begged, sticking out her lower lip. "Give me the gossip!"

He looked at her bemusedly. "The… gossip?"

"You know, what happened? A guy like you _has _to have had a girl!"

Booker snorted. "Well, let's see…" he murmured, tapping a finger to his chin. "She died giving birth to my kid, and then I found out that the bitch was cheating on me the whole time." He smiled cynically, and then started walking without her. "That _juicy_ enough for you?" he called sarcastically over his shoulder.

Elizabeth gaped at him for a moment, before hurrying to catch up, her heels click-clacking loudly on the road. "But – but then you must have a child!" she pointed out. Her speech was dotted with light pants as she struggled to keep pace.

"No," he replied evenly, but she could see the tension in his jaw. He could feel his muscles tensing and his heart race just a tad faster. _Dammit, DeWitt – haven't you gotten over this yet_?His legs churned vigorously, trying to drown out the turmoil in his head.

The girl struggled to stay at his side, stumbling over every single thing that happened to be on the road. "Hold up!" she cried, but the man strode forth with determination.

She managed to grab his hand after sprinting forward a few steps. "Booker, please!" she pled, frightened by his passiveness. He turned to look at her finally, his expression neutral.

"I – I'm sorry for snooping in your past," she said quickly, before he lost interest and walked off. "I shouldn't have asked." She intertwined her fingers with his, hoping it would sway his decision.

Booker's face took on a confused expression and he glanced at their conjoined hands, baffled. "Uh…" He cleared his throat. "It's okay, I guess," he muttered eventually. "It's just – it was a difficult time for me, and I don't particularly like remembering it." His brow furrowed and he looked over her head. "But – "

"But what?"

He browsed through his memories quickly, and they felt… foreign? They didn't feel right in his head. It was like he had been drunk the whole time – some stuff was blurry and indistinct, while emotions like the anger and betrayal were almost overwhelming. He scrunched his eyebrows together and then shook his head. _Must be having some PSTD from this shit_.

The girl was looking at him with concern. "Booker, you're not bound to your past," she urged. "You were baptized when you came in here, weren't you?"

Booker nodded slightly, grimacing at the memory. It was more of a forceful drowning than anything else.

"The past is the past, and you can't change it. But you can change _yourself_. That's the point of the baptism! So that you get a fresh start."

Booker laughed loudly, startling the girl. If only it were that easy. "You can't teach an old dog new tricks."

She giggled at him, which was not the reaction that he expected. "You're not that old!"

"Old enough to know that it's a lost cause."

"You'll see! Once we get to Paris. I hear the atmosphere there can turn you into a completely different person." She didn't even bother hiding the enthusiasm in her voice.

He chuckled. _Yeah, we'll see about that_. "Let's worry about getting there first, huh?" he said. "Come on, let's get moving." he said, jerking his head forward. _Deal with the debt first, and then you can worry about your mental state._ Still, his amnesia over his wife troubled him. With a glazed look, he trudged forward, trying to bat away the fogginess in his head at the same time.

Booker didn't realize that they were still holding hands, and the small smile on Elizabeth's face meant he wasn't going to be told anytime soon.

* * *

A completely different couple sat at the ice cream parlor, watching the other two from the window. The man eagerly stuffed his face with food, barely breathing.

"There's something… off about this Booker," Rosalind said uneasily.

Robert stopped chewing, an eyebrow raised. "Hmm?" he questioned through a mouth full of bread.

She looked at him, noting with disgust the drool that trickled down his chin. "I don't know exactly," she admitted, "but there's something I can't put my finger on with him."

Swallowing noisily, Robert tapped the table with his finger. "He seems quite normal to me. And quite likable, though you wouldn't know that," he added teasingly.

They paused as the waiter brought another heaping of food to the table. Robert nodded his thanks, a sly smile on his face. With deft fingers, he gestured for another cup of coffee, and the young man hurried to comply, eagerly chasing after the enormous tip that he was all but guaranteed.

As soon as he left, Robert rested his chin on his palms with a confused expression. "Is that all you wanted to tell me?"

Rosalind picked sullenly at the food. She hadn't taken a single bite, despite Robert's urging that "traveling in the space-time continuum absorbs too much energy!"

"No," she grumbled, but refused to continue. Her silence was punctured by the laughter of other customers, clearly enjoying life more than she was. Robert watched them longingly for a moment, wishing his sister could have the same energy and enthusiasm as they had.

Finally, Rosalind shifted slightly, playing with a strand of hair that had fallen out of her usually tight bun. "His past," she murmured softly, thinking. "It affects him more than it has to the others, has it not?"

Robert shrugged. "Everyone has inner demons, and everyone deals with it differently. Even those who are the alike, yet not the same." He polished off another biscuit, his plate now spotless and clean. Wrinkling his nose, he turned to the waiter who had finally showed up. "Another plate, please? These tasted like shi - ah, not good."

_Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you_… The man smiled icily at his customers. "Actually, I'll need you to pay your bill now, please." The words have never sounded any better coming out of his mouth, and he relished the look of disappointment on the other man. Observing their faces closely for the first time, he frowned. "Say, aren't you the Lu – "

Something brushed against his back, and a blur of grey appeared in the corner of his vision. Confused, he turned around, only to find that nothing was there. "The hell?" he muttered.

"Sorry about that," he said quickly, turning back to the couple. "That'll be – "

His voice faltered. The two of them were gone; their seats empty of all of the aggravating wit they had brought with them. They had fucking disappeared - literally.

The bill crumpled in his fist. "_Fuck_!"

* * *

Booker studied the lever critically. "It looks broken," he announced, pleased at his detective work. His face fell immediately as the information registered. "Oh, dammit!"

Elizabeth rolled her eyes at him. "Well done, genius," she drawled sarcastically.

"So, Plan B." He squinted, trying to think. "I'll steal a worker's keys, or you have to seduce one of them – "

"How about we get some Shock Jockey and get it back up running?" she asked innocently, gesturing to a billboard right next to the lever. "It seems like the whole system runs on this stuff."

"Shock Jockey?" He looked at her questioningly.

A different voice answered him. "It's a Vigor." Booker's head snapped up, as did Elizabeth's. His wariness faded as soon as he saw who it was.

"Robert," he greeted, relieved that it wasn't someone dangerous. A quick, brief nod was given to the woman.

He paused to drink in their words. "Wait, another Vigor?" A feeling of dread developed in his stomach and he shook his head viciously. "I'm not going to use another one of those! Look what it did to my hand – "

His voice faltered when he looked down. Elizabeth's breath hitched. Robert let out an extremely audible snigger.

"Wha – what the hell – how long – _Jesus_!" Booker quickly drew his hand away like it had been scalded. Face hot, he pretended to not notice Elizabeth's hurt expression beside him. _Smooth, DeWitt; smooth._

Rosalind glowered at him, her lip curling. Meanwhile, Robert had a thumbs-up and a cheesy grin, though he made sure to keep it out of Rosalind's sight. "I'd say about ten minutes," he answered cheerily.

Dragging his fingers across his face, Booker let out an explosive sigh. "First of all, I did _not _mean for that to happen. Shit, I didn't even realize that she did that! And secondly... I am not using any more damn Vigors!" He stared the twins down defiantly, just daring them to say otherwise.

Robert waggled a finger at him, scolding him. "That's a no-no, Booker! You have no choice."

"I'm thinking that I _do_ have a choice," he growled, a bit peeved at the tone Robert was using on him. "I'm not letting this city turn me into some kind of damn monster!"

"A bit too late for that, isn't it brother?"

Robert's eye twitched and he took a swipe at his sister. "Quit your teasing!" he barked. "And you, go get a beer and calm down!" he ordered at Booker, who was taking threatening steps towards the woman. He eyed all of them sternly. "We are acting like a dysfunctional family, and we are not making any progress!"

Robert paused to take a calming breath. A smirk formed on his face. "Well, you two are more like pubescent teens than anything else," he amended, gesturing to Booker and Elizabeth.

Booker took a step away from the flustered girl, not pleased with how things were turning out. "What are you trying to get at, Robert?"

"What I am _trying _to tell you is that you must take this Vigor."

"And if I don't?" Booker wasn't trying to be an ass to Robert, but the man wasn't giving him any other choice.

"Then I suggest that you two find a therapist to sort out your hormones, and then go find a nice alley to live in."

Booker grunted. "Those are our only options?"

Robert winked at him. "Those are your best options."

Booker weighed his options. "Let's see… nope, let's go get that Shock Jockey," he decided swiftly, leaving no room for argument.

And as he stomped off, he just couldn't help but notice the disappointment on Elizabeth's face.

Booker sighed. Was it too late to ask for the therapist?

**A shorter chapter, but hopefully all of you enjoy it! Please make sure to review if you can, because they _may_ or may not affect how much I procrastinate on this. Also, I'm working on another project, so please pardon the delay. If you have a good idea for the story, feel free to make a suggestion! This is still a work in progress, and a lot of details have come from or were inspired by certain reviews. Once again, I appreciate everyone who takes the time to stop by! **


	5. Crippled Inside

_Weary child, thy sin forsaking,__  
__Close thy heart no more;__  
__From thy dream of pleasure waking,__  
__Open wide the door._

Once again, another perfect summer day smiled upon the streets of Columbia. The clear blue sky was dotted with stark white clouds, and every so often a cool breeze would arrive, caressing the various banners and flags draped on the buildings. Even the architecture itself seemed to be rejoicing; the pavement glittered like precious gems under the sun's beams.

Unfortunately, the normal pedestrians of Columbia weren't around to lavish in such weather. Quite the contrary, as the only people around in Soldier's Field's usually festive streets were tough-looking men wielding guns and grimaces.

And in Booker's eyes, that could only mean trouble.

He groaned. The bloody entrance to the Hall of Heroes was _right there_, and _now_ the bad guys decide to come out and play? Part of him was tempted to charge in, guns a'blazing, just wanting to _feel_ that adrenaline rush again… and the other, more human part of him thought that maybe, just _maybe_, attracting all that attention wouldn't be a wise decision.

Call it a hunch.

He moved into a shadowed doorway of a store, motioning for Elizabeth to follow with a deft hand. She gave him a strange look but relented, ambling over like their lives weren't in danger. "What are you – "

"_Shush_!" Booker dragged his finger across his throat, his voice a harsh whisper. "There's bad guys here."

He poked his head out, scanning the area. Right as he did so, a group of men rounded a corner and began walking over. Startled, Booker jerked back into the shade, mouthing a silent prayer that he hadn't been seen. Thankfully, Elizabeth had grasped the gravity of the situation and had pressed herself into his side, muffling her breathing.

The men stopped their pacing right in front of the store's entrance and Booker froze, not daring to draw a breath. From the corners of his eyes, he could see that their backs were turned to them as they socialized with each other. One had pulled out a cigarette and was blowing the thick smoke into the air. "What are we even doing here?" he grumbled, taking a long drag.

"I don't know," began a stockier fellow with a shaggy dark beard, "but I'd _really_ fucking appreciate it if you kept your little smoke-sticks to yourself."

"_Kiss_ my ass."

"Look, why don't you shove that in your – "

Booker rolled his eyes at their quarrel, tuning them out. Typical soldiers. If you weren't getting drunk together or saving each other's lives, then you were beating the living piss out of each other with your bare hands.

It wasn't long before another man jogged over, attempting to relay a batch of orders in hushed tones while gasping for air. A small stack of fliers were distributed among the group, and Booker just managed to get a glimpse of his own face and eyes printed upon it, glaring up at the readers with inky black pupils.

He managed to catch a few choice words from their conversation. "Lockdown… searching… False Shepard… gun the sonuvabitch down."

"They're looking for us," he deduced, breathing the words out. _Your finest investigative work to date, Mr. DeWitt._

"Who are?"

Booker peeked out, wary that one of them might swivel around and spot him. The little gathering had dispersed as a few took up patrols, while others slacked off and picked at their nails. Some of the men wore helmets and bulkier armor that were just a few shades lighter than the usual policemen's sky-blue uniform. His sharp eyes picked up less noticeable details – a cross necklace tucked into a shirt, a well-worn bible stuffed in a belt. "Comstock's men, I think."

Elizabeth's fists clenched, wrinkling her dress. "Well, do something about them!" she spluttered.

Booker snorted and pulled out his pistol. "I have less than twelve bullets, dear – I'm _not_ taking on an army," he retorted. "Not even for you."

"What do we do then?" Elizabeth whispered, her voice rising a bit from desperation. She flinched as one stepped very close to them. The bearded man's padded boots seemed to echo threateningly as he walked closer and closer, matching the beat of Booker's racing heart. Booker didn't answer, his finger twitching on the trigger, the gun pointed in the trooper's direction.

Elizabeth's breathing became hurried and panicked with each passing second, her eyes darting over to where the man stood not more than five feet away from them. In his hand swung a sleek black machine gun, looking deceptively harmless.

Irritated with the girl's erratic panting, Booker reached over and covered her mouth with his free hand. She stopped breathing as soon as his hand made contact, her wide eyes staring at him. He almost rolled his eyes. One moment she's seconds away from hyperventilating, and now she's seconds away from suffocating herself. Go figure. She was more likely to kill herself by accident than by anything else.

"Now you listen to me," he hissed, putting his lips right next to her ear. "We're going to have to sneak into the Hall's entrance. You hear me?" He felt her nod in confirmation. "I'll go first, and you follow."

Booker drew away and holstered his pistol, waiting until the guard turned around completely before he made his move. He glided over the ground without a sound, wincing and biting back a curse when he stubbed his toe. A bead of sweat dripped off his nose. _Holy shit_, he thought, a glimmer of hope flickering in his mind. _I might be able to do this._

And then Elizabeth sneezed, ten times louder than what he would have liked.

"What the – by Comstock's beard! The False Shepherd!" A spray of bullets smacked into the ground next to him, sending bits of pavement flying past him, some of them drawing blood. Miraculously, he wasn't wounded or hit.

"You have _got_ to be fucking kidding me," Booker growled. He sent a bullet into the soldier's head without even a passing glance, ignoring the horrible squelching noise the corpse made. The situation was rapidly getting out of control as the footsteps of reinforcements grew closer, baying like a pack of wolves.

Shit, who was he kidding – the situation was _already _out of control. Elizabeth hurried over, an apologetic look on her face.

"There was dust everywhere and – "

Booker cut her off. "_Not_ now. C'mon." He grabbed her by the arm and together they sprinted into the Hall of Heroes, Comstock's holy little army hot on their heels.

* * *

"_One thing you can't hide - is when you're crippled inside."_

- John Lennon

The first thing he noticed about the Hall was the state of decay it was in. Columbia (or the areas he'd seen) was in pristine condition; white, clean, and annoying as all hell – a lot like its inhabitants.

But here, chairs and desks were toppled over, glass was cracked, and a layer of dust blanketed everything. _Elizabeth better have some tissues_, some distant part of him thought. More pressing was the appearance of several mutilated bodies at the base of a statue in the center of the room, still leaking out fresh blood.

Sketchy scenery aside, it did have a conveniently-placed cabinet next to the door. Booker rushed over and braced the point of his shoulder on the worn wood. With a grunt of effort, he toppled it over, providing a damn good barrier for the time being. A plume of dust billowed into the air from the impact. He smirked, wiping off his hands in satisfaction.

"Good thinking," Elizabeth commented. Then she sneezed.

Booker paused to wipe the sweat from his face, cringing at how his clothing clung to his skin. The past few hours hadn't exactly been kind to his hygiene.

"Well," he breathed out, "I don't think the others saw us. They'll have to search the whole area, so we should be safe for now."

A bullet slammed into the space behind Booker's head, dismissing his words almost contemptuously. For the second time, tiny fragments of debris scratched the living hell out of his exposed skin, though this time the culprits were splinters.

Speaking of exposed, Elizabeth was standing right next to him, an easy target for even the most incompetent gunner. _Speak of the devil_, he thought as a man popped up towards the back of the room, a pistol nestled in his arms.

Booker tackled Elizabeth to the ground, and the bullet whizzed over their heads. Bullets were always a pain in the ass, but better figuratively than literally. _Wise words from a wise man_, he mused.

"You know, you could have just said something. Less bruises that way," Elizabeth muttered. She spat a few stray strands of hair from her mouth before a sneeze shook her shoulders.

Booker rolled his eyes and pressed his body against a table that was conveniently overturned. _What did I do to please the furniture gods_? "Less talking, more – " He hesitated and cast her a quick glance. "More, uh, sneezing."

An intermittent amount of gunfire continued to chip away at their cover, breaking the otherwise tense silence. "Can't be that many of them, then," he reasoned, his forehead wrinkled in thought.

Adrenaline pumped through his veins as he flexed his hand, assessing the situation. With trembling and sweaty fingers, he opened the gun's magazine and counted his bullets. _I've got enough to get me killed_, he thought, annoyed.

He flung his arm over the table, taking a blind shot towards where he thought the gunfire was coming from, and was rewarded with a yell of pain. "You're going to pay for that, you fucking _tin man_!" a different man bellowed, his voice twisted with rage.

"These fellas don't know how to trash talk," he remarked, chuckling a little in disbelief. "You're joking, right? Tin man?"

Luckily, the gunfire had died down to nothing, meaning that these two – well, one now – were probably only lookouts. Taking a risk, he popped his head out of cover, looking for more targets. His eyes were drawn to the statue in the center, which he soon recognized as a figure of carved in the likeness of George Washington… with a few differences.

A closer examination showed gears and wires poking out from beneath cracks and an eerie gold glow in the eyes. "What the hell?" Booker muttered, caught somewhere between disturbed and in awe.

It came alive at his words, almost as if it could understand his bemusement, and wanted to screw with him further. Its rusted arm jerked up and down and its mouth flapped open. A tinny-sounding voice began to speak from its mouth, the words comically out of sync with the motion of its porcelain lips.

"_Too rare is the man who takes a stand…"_

In hindsight, letting his guard down like that was not the best idea.

"Booker_, to your right_ – "

_BANG_.

A searing pain to his head –

And then darkness.

* * *

The first thing that Booker became aware of was that he was sprawled on the dirty floor, arms and legs askew. He was also aware that he was in possession of the worst fucking headache since God knows when.

He opened his eyes blearily and was met with the girl's signature doe-eyed look, again only inches away from his face. "Hello déjà vu," he mumbled to himself.

"What did you say?" she yelped, startled by his sudden return to consciousness. Something moved behind her, but Booker couldn't distinguish it from his fuzzy vision. Its outline did look familiar… sort of like a monkey with a banana?

He blinked.

Or maybe a human with a gun.

His fingers fumbled on the ground, searching for his fallen handgun. "_Get out of the way_!" he said, trying to warn Elizabeth, but his tongue refused to cooperate. Instead, what came out was more of a moan, and he closed his eyes in frustration.

"Talk to me, Booker!" Elizabeth begged, a little frightened. Her back was turned to the danger behind her, which was a little bit of an issue.

Booker's pinky brushed the familiar wooden stock of the pistol. With great effort, he managed to wrap his hand around the butt, settling his finger on the trigger. Thankfully, the girl's body was hiding his gun from the view of their attacker. "I said…" he growled, at last audible to Elizabeth. He put his free hand on her shoulder.

"_Move_!" he roared. The hand on her shoulder gave her a rough shove to the ground, while the other pushed himself into an upright position.

Fighting through the intensifying pain, he raised his gun with a trembling arm, somehow managing to line up the iron sights. The resounding _bang_ rattled his brain and he dropped the gun, bringing his hands to cup his aching ears. At the same time, a figure collapsed onto the ground in front of him, a small red hole punched through his chest.

Booker let out a long whistle, a strained look on his face. "Damn." His ears were still ringing, and it felt like his head had been trampled on.

Elizabeth nodded, a look of shock on her face. Her eyebrows had taken up residence at the very edge of her hairline.

A long silence followed while Booker massaged his throbbing forehead. Finally, Elizabeth spoke up. "I didn't know bullets to the head could make you aim better," she quipped, a curious little smile on her face.

"Seriously?" Booker's eyebrow quirked and he gave her an incredulous look. "_That's _what happened?" She nodded. "Then shouldn't you be a _little_ more concerned about my wellbeing?" He made a halfhearted gesture with his hand.

Elizabeth shrugged. "You seem to be healthy enough. You can aim a gun and you can talk; all signs of being alive and well, right?"

"Thank God you're not a doctor." Booker teased, shaking his head. He scratched at the stubble on his chin, wincing as he brushed against a sensitive scratch. "For what it's worth," he added, a crooked grin appearing on his lips, "I'm an even better shot when I'm drunk."

This elicited an emphatic eye roll and groan from the girl. "Men and their alcohol," she sniffed, crossing her arms. "Maybe that's why you were _glowing yellow_ after you got hit? Hm?" She leaned closer, narrowing her eyes. "Did a magical bottle of _beer_ do that for you?"

_Yellow? Glowing?_ Before he could respond, an image of Robert holding a large yellow bottle popped up. "_Something that'll help_…" _Infusion_… and that little glint in Robert's eye had made him feel uneasy. It didn't help that whatever it was didn't taste the slightest like beer. Maybe… maybe Robert was genuinely on his side. And maybe Robert was batshit insane.

Deciding that that he should worry about his head first and meaningless banter later, he heaved himself over to the dead body, shifting it so that the man stared at the ceiling with glassy eyes.

Ignoring the blood that pooled around his feet, Booker rolled up his sleeves, a determined look on his face. "Well, back to work," he muttered to himself. He began patting the man down like he was looking for something.

"Uh, Booker?" Elizabeth piped up. "That doesn't seem very ethical."

Booker ignored her, rifling through the corpse's clothing, which was noticeably different from Comstock's men's uniforms, though that didn't register in his pain-hazed mind.

"Booker, I think that bullet messed with your thinking a bit – "

"_Aha_ – there we go." Booker pulled out a small wooden box from the inside coat pocket. Eagerly, he fumbled with the latch, and was rewarded with a small vial of liquid and a syringe. "_Hell-o_, gorgeous," he cackled, his eyes shining.

Elizabeth watched with apprehension as he jabbed himself with the needle. "Is that really something you should be doing?"

"No." Booker remained silent for a moment as the morphine worked its magic. He let out a sigh of relief as the familiar lightheadedness swept through his head. "But, you know." He shrugged.

"Sorry, I _don't_ know," she retorted.

"Desperate times, desperate measures; that whole thing." Booker scratched the back of his head. The morphine wasn't particularly strong, which was a double-edged sword – on one hand, he wasn't blundering around like a wasted fool, but on the other hand… to put it in milder terms, it still hurt like hell.

"I'll be fine," he replied, in response to Elizabeth's skeptical expression. "Worst-case scenario, I die. Best-case, I walk around like nothing happened."

"Booker – "

"I _know_ what I'm doing." He kept eye contact with her until she lowered her chin, sighing in defeat.

Booker frowned. Sometimes he forgot that this girl had never even seen another real person – let alone having one murdered right in front of her – prior to her meeting him.

She was depending on him to do this dirty work, and here he was, running around getting shot in the head and using questionable liquids from dead people; not exactly a dependable protector. _No shit?_

"Elizabeth, look – " Booker's voice faltered as Elizabeth bent over the corpse, oblivious to what he was saying. He opened his mouth to reprimand her, but stopped himself. Maybe she found something useful?

Elizabeth reached over, her hands hovering over the man's listless head. She paused for a moment, furrowing her eyebrows as if she was in deep thought. After an almost inaudible sigh, she lowered two slender fingers and closed the dead man's eyelids with a delicate touch.

Elizabeth straightened her dress out as she stood back up, catching Booker's questioning eyes as she did so. "What?"

Booker cocked his head, an exasperated look in his eyes. "You _do_ realize that bastard was trying to kill you, right?"

Elizabeth glared at him. "He's still a _person_, Booker!"

"_And_ he tried to kill you?" He shook his head. "Look, I'm not having this discussion with you right now. But you need to open your eyes." He gave her with a loaded look. "This isn't the first time, and it's definitely not going to be the last."

Elizabeth's face drooped, her eyes straying towards the motionless body. Grime and dust caked her outfit, making her look disheveled and a tad bit wild; not at all like the innocent and carefree girl he had stumbled onto only a few hours before.

Booker sighed. "I'm just doing what I know will get us out of here alive."

Elizabeth's face softened, but not by much. "It's just…"

"I know."

Booker's foot nudged an object on the ground, grabbing his attention. The dead man's medicine box. The box had shut itself closed when had bumped into it, and he noticed that there was a small plaque in the very center.

He kneeled down, brushing a finger over the worn metal. He frowned; this box seemed oddly familiar to him. The owner's name had been scratched off the small plate long ago, but the writing underneath was still legible. _7__th__CAVALRY, WOUNDED KNEE._

"Well, ain't that something," he muttered to himself. He rubbed his chin in worry.

"Did you find something?"

His head shot up, breaking him out of his reverie. "Maybe we're not just on Comstock's shit list," he mused, standing back up.

The news was disheartening to him. Killing religious fanatics was one thing, but fellow soldiers…? And there was no question as to what some of those soldiers would do if they got their hands on Elizabeth. His eyes did an once-over on the girl and shuddered, a feeling of protectiveness and determination washing over him.

"Stay here," he ordered firmly. "I'm going to make sure that the room is clear."

Elizabeth pouted. "Booker – "

"_Stay._" His tone left no room for argument, and he walked off, his body stiff with tension.

She groaned, her shoulders sloping downward as she watched Booker tip-toe over the dead body. He was a mystery to her, he really was.

One moment he could be so gentle and soft, and then the next he would be a blur of testosterone and adrenaline, killing men without even batting an eyelid.

Most of the time he tended to act decades older than what he actually was – weary and full of guilt – though on occasions there were times where his youthfulness shone through the masquerade. _Like when you called him handsome._ A random giggle burst through her lips at the thought.

It faded as Booker turned into a room on the left, and out of her sight. "Just – just don't get hurt!" she whispered, chewing on the inside of her mouth as her nerves got the better of her.

If he heard her, he didn't respond.

* * *

_CLANG_.

Booker frowned, perking his head up to wear the sound had come from. The hallway he had ventured into was empty, with the exception of a bloody corpse sprawled over a counter, where he might've worked as a ticket vendor. Poor bastard had bruises and burns plastered all over his face and neck. These people were not messing around.

He crept along the edge of the counter without making a noise, his ears picking up the sound of frantic breaths. Whoever this was, they were in the wrong league.

Booker tensed his legs and pulled the safety back on the pistol. _One… two… three – _

He sprang into action, leaping out like a blur, picking up a dark shape cowering in the corner of the room. The barrel came up with practiced ease. _Too damn easy – _

A high-pitched scream.

It didn't register at first, at least not until the gun had already bucked in his hand, and by then it was too late. The person was already letting out faint gurgles as they struggled with their final breaths.

Booker's eyes focused in on his latest victim, and…

_Shit. _

He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly very dry.

_You've done worse, come on, man! Get a move on, _the colder side of him taunted. But for whatever reason, the energy in his body had just faded. "Fuck fuck fuck – "

And then the memories came.

"_... We're just here to disarm them. No violence, and we should be done within a few hours. Understand?" _

"_Fuck that…"_

"_Captain Slate? Did you have something to add?"_

"_You saw what those redskins did to poor ol' Custer, Colonel. An eye for an eye, that's what I say!"_

"_Slate, that was _fourteen _years ago – "_

"_James, those bastards deserve one hell of a licking – "_

"_It _won't_ come to that."_

"_And if it does?"_

"_Fucking _lay off_, Captain. You heard the colonel. Stop being such a goddamn monster."_

"_Me? A monster? DeWitt, you're no more of a monster than I am."_

"_Slate, that's quite enough – "_

"_What are you gonna do when one of 'em tries to gut your scrawny ass?"_

"_I – we – "_

"_You don't have the _balls _to do what has to be done!"_

"_Yes, I do! Sir!"_

"_All talk, Corporal. Grow a goddamn pair."_

"_If I have to…" _

_A pause and a gulp._

"…_I'll slice the fuckers' heads off."_

"_That's the spirit, Corporal."_

It wasn't hard for him to imagine the wicked smile on that familiar face.

"Slate…" Booker croaked, the name a sour taste on his tongue. He was leaning on the desk for support. One of his hands almost grabbed the man's much-abused corpse, and he stumbled backwards as more memories came streaming forth.

_His rifle is smoking in his hands as he fires off another shot, smirking as it finds its mark in a terrified woman trying to flee. This is Hell to them, but this feeling, this power… it's enough to make him not care.__A snarl of rage is ripped from his throat as he feels something slam painfully into his back, and the shock is enough to make his gun tumble out of his hands. He turns around and it's just a little girl wielding a now-broken stick and a terrified expression, no more than ten –__One hand grabs his knife, the other her dirtied brown hair and – __  
_  
_Slice the fuckers' heads off._

"_No_." Cold sweat beaded his forehead, stinging his eyes. He had fallen to his knees, his forehead resting on the ground.

_He looks in his bedroom mirror, and he sees only the red in his eyes and the red stains on his shirt, and the smoke from his pistol. And the only thing he can hear is that dreadful screech of pain and anguish – it's _good_ that they suffered (no, you're a _monster_, and you always have been!) – so he slams the door wide and runs and runs and runs – _

_An eye for an eye._

"Get your shit _together, _Booker!" He slammed the floor with all his strength. Something rattled on the ground next to his fist, and he glanced over. A well-worn stuffed bear lay next to a smatter of blood.

He didn't know how long he stared at that little toy, but the pool of blood soon trickled over and stained the soft brown felt. His eyes widened as a thought raced by his subconscious.

_Like how the blood got everywhere when you shot – _

"_Booker_? Are you okay? I heard a gunshot!"

Elizabeth.

He drew in a shaky breath. "You've still got a job to do, man," he growled to himself. "Don't lose your mind yet."

"I'll be right there," he called out, his voice cracking with strain. "Just hold on for a second."

Chest heaving, Booker reached out with two shaking fingers. With the softest of touches, he closed the little girl's eyes, sparing him from her accusing stare. That only served to enlarge the lump in his throat, and he hung his head. _How the hell did things turn out like this_?

A scrap of brightly colored paper next to the dead man caught his eye, and he felt his stomach drop at the words. _COLUMBIA'S HALL OF HEROES PRESENTS: BRING YOUR DAUGHTER TO WORK DAY – The cult of domesticity is the blood of Columbia, and our Prophet intends to maintain this pulse. Your family, your friends, and your Prophet will thank you for this service!_

Booker closed his eyes, grinding his teeth as he contemplated the truth.

Finally, he stood to his full height, feeling as if there were a huge weight on his shoulders. He glanced at the gun in his hands and contemplated suicide for a moment, before a look of utter disgust fell onto his face. _I get a choice, and they don't? _He let it clatter onto the ground.

"Booker? Are you done yet?"

He sighed and turned his back on the body, taking heavy steps toward Elizabeth's voice. Before he rounded the corner, he paused and looked up at the ceiling, seeing past the rotting wooden boards. An apology seemed like the most inconsiderate thing he could do… but it was all he could offer.

"I – " He coughed as the words formed a lump in his throat.

"I'm sorry."

* * *

Elizabeth rushed over to him as soon as he came into her sight, insisting on checking to make sure that he wasn't injured. He endured it for a few minutes before his patience ran out. "I'm _fine_, Elizabeth," he grumbled, peeling her off with a stiff arm.

She crossed her arms, not convinced. "Really?"

He nodded dully, not meeting her eyes. "Yep."

"Are you sure?"

"Uh-huh."

"How's your head?"

"Good."

Elizabeth studied his demeanor, pursing her lips. "Booker… whatever happened back there, if you ever need someone to talk to – "

"I said _I'm fine_," he growled.

To her credit, Elizabeth remained unperturbed. "All I'm saying is that I'm sure you did the right thing." She patted his cheek with a warm and gentle hand, meeting his upset eyes with her own hopeful ones. "Desperate times, remember?" She gave him a comforting grin and made her way towards the next door. "You're not a bad man, Booker!"

"_No_…" Booker muttered to himself.

_I was. And still am._

* * *

**Big, big thanks to Flying Penguin for betaing this chapter. This definitely wouldn't have turned out the same without your input!**

**Also, I really appreciate all the reviews and follows for this story. So much support... and I repay you guys with huge gaps between updates. Sorry!**

**Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter, and don't forget to drop reviews/critiques/suggestions/questions. **


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